The Devil Loves Karaoke

Pickled Parrot, Spring Hill




The Devil licks its fingers clean from the breaking of hearts.

Fingers wiped on the walls of a karaoke bar.




Like blood, love stains—

Fumes in a room, curdles spit in the palm of a hand.

Fingers splayed wide; the bar top is wet, but not from what you think.




She looked me up and down, a sketch of despair.

Watching the bar collapse, I asked her over.


Her hair was black like a nest of shadows all tangled together.

Her eyes bright and green; lips red, I picked up my beer by the neck and finished it.


I asked her eyes a question and she answered.

I liked her face; it was sweet, frankly sexual.

Her hand moved from her lap to mine.


I twisted on the bar stool like the gore in my legs consisted of serpents instead of blood.

She noticed my discomfort but (bless her) didn’t let on.

I stared into her emerald eyes—hot as a dying star.


We left together.




The Devil sang “Total Eclipse of the Heart” in the background.

The floor was slippery, but not from what you think.


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