Bad Screen

It is too cold for bat flights around the moon but I take the trip anyway, the jar of moonshine was crazy strong. When this year topples into the next, time will find me in a crowded stadium my back turned from the game in disgust, or maybe I will be crouched like a comic book gargoyle on the top of my TV watching pockets of insanity explode like grenades on a plasma screen dream. If I am able to write without crushing my fingers I will try to describe the roving bands of reapers and their scythes; how those kindly terminators ended the fun-house peep show, how also behind those hoody figures hordes of blank-eyes city workers dutifully moped up the spill, as if spilled brains were as hazardous as banana skins.