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The Mark

by Mark Stigers 2 months ago in surreal poetry

You Must Pay your Tax even in Hell

“Hey, Boss there’s a big bag for you,

I said, “It has come from Brazil.”

He said, “I tell you what to do,”

Take it to the house on the hill.”

“Do you mean the old haunted one?

Woe, Boss are you out of your mind?

The one the Ghost Toasters ran from,

The one with all the Evil Signs?”

“Good, you know where the place is at.

Trade these vanilla beans for Were Weed.

It’s the best and that’s a fact.

This is a weed that’s fine indeed.

In the basement, there’s a portal.

It stretches across space and time.

To a place that is immortal,

So special of a place to find.

They’re sure to try and rip you off.

Stay firm that you want the Were Weed.

Don’t be fooled they want your stuff.

I know that you’re sure to succeed.”

I found myself at the house gate.

I was given the padlock key.

Up the dark driveway to my fate,

to a place, I didn’t want to be.

The cold wind blew an icy blast,

the Moon was hidden behind the clouds.

The house stood like a black fact,

of the evils that were allowed.

The heavy bag of vanilla beans,

I carried it on a dolly.

Into the house of creepy scenes.

Why am I doing such folly?

A young child’s voice asked, “Who are you?”

“It is the vanilla bean man,”

I said, “Now what am I to do?”

“Just get out,” was the demand.

“Not until I get my Were Weed.”

I said, “I’m taking this to the portal.”

The voice said, “That’s such a bold deed,

to be done by a mere mortal.”

When I walked into the main room,

from the second floor there was a scare.

There came a giggle from the gloom,

and a ball bounced down the stairs.

Up to the basement door, it rolled.

Once there the ball waited for me.

I was not feeling very bold,

into the gloom, the ball did proceed.

I shined a light down in the cellar.

The beam was eaten by the dark.

I could feel the basement dweller.

It struck cold fear into my heart.

I took the load down the black steps,

into a room that’s so creepy.

On the floor, a vile demon’s hex.

The cellar was just so freaky.

There were strange symbols all around.

On the wall was a pentagram.

From the center came moaning sounds,

and red light from a place that’s damned.

I said, “I have come for Were Weed.

I have got a bag of Vanilla Beans.”

A dark eerie voice said, “Indeed.

Then let us proceed by all means.

To trade such stuff you need a mark.

To show that you’ve paid your tax.

Pass your arm through then we’ll start,

once the sign to your hand we attach.”

“Hold it what is the tax I must pay?”

“It’s just a liter of your blood.

Stick your arm in all the way,

come on and give us some love.”

“I’m giving no blood on my part.

You want these beans, or do I leave?”

“Leave if you will not get the mark.

You must do this to trade Were Weed.”

I turned to leave this Evil deal.

The voice said, “You chicken fool!

Is it fear in your heart you feel,

to comply with such a dark rule?”

“Demon I’m not afraid of you.

My blood I’ll give you a liter.

Do to me what you want to do.

This proves you are a vile creature.

They gave to me the special mark.

Then they took my vanilla beans.

I got ten pounds of weed so dark,

that crystals on the weed glowed green.

The Boss wanted to see my mark

when I got back with the Were Weed.

So he knew I had done my part,

that I am part of such a deed.

surreal poetry

Mark Stigers

One year after my birth sputnik was launched, making me a space child. I did a hitch in the Navy as a electronics tech. I worked for Hughes Aircraft Company for quite a while. I currently live in the Saguaro forest in Tucson Arizona

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