This poem is dedicated to S. and the small tribe of chipmunks that live in his sock drawer.
All at once, I think,
The florescent light bulbs blink.
Electric blue illumination,
This is a pointless situation.
I feel the powerful static,
Lightly burning, oh so erratic.
The stark room I sit in,
It's cold like my mother's kitchen.
Rats run around an invisible race track.
I wait for the electro-heart attack.
The judge counts to three.
They say goodbye to me.
The real culprit waves from the corner,
I yell and scream attempting to scorn her.
The outside grows quiet,
I feel there might be a happy riot.
The attendees are all excited.
Not a single candle is lighted.
It starts as a split second of searing,
Then my mind is literally clearing.
Mind muscle is all but gone.
Somebody put the fucking music on!
Glasses of wine are handed out.
Alcohol is springing from a spout.
I'm still not dead yet.
Why aren't they watching me set?
Lights flicker as they use all the juice.
I start to smell like a cooked goose.
Little fires burst out of my melting skin,
This is all because of my little minor sin.
When they notice my violently shaking shape,
They splash on their drinks. I explode like a squashed grape.
I was put to death in a Los Vegas institution,
There were Neon Lights at my Electrocution.