A Night on the Town with Jim Grimoire by Moxy Casimir

some dozen pet graves, a meal’s scraped bones

the words that fell to their deaths from phones

goblins on their paunches crawling in packs

grabbing at the fingers rising through the cracks


startled from reverie eight pints in

pentangle razored in his prickle-buzz trim

his interlocked hands roughhousing with rings

in a pouch in his pocket — unfathomable things 


an eldritch invocation, and a ritual almost followed

something decanted and … reluctantly swallowed

draws a wamble of ghosts with floating iron hearts

which they smash-to-smithereens (with bricks) in fits and starts


claw marks in the darkness, he tucks them under chin

then scrapes them with an adder, what a feral violin

the cold moon passes, pirouetting on her crescent,

as the Dead return from Nowhere to shiver in the present