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Nailed It
by Stephen Philip Druce

I knew a bloke that nailed his asshole to a tree.

I speculated as to the source of inspiration
that had prompted him to do such a thing.

I think he must have been ambling freely through
the forest one night, when suddenly he heard the sound
of wolves howling from a carcass of eagle claws that spiked
a coyote prowl in swooning pause.

The sound of a whistling ice wind plummet - a fleeing deer
streaking across the strewn summit and the jagged frontier,

the sound of night owls in starved repetoire without
an instrument to strum, for a sincere symphony to sooth
the lonely scars on the hearts of their beating drum.

He must have gazed up at the night sky - picked a star and
wondered what it meant, and then as if to tell him it flickered
like a signal - like a message sent.

A star so silent - so lonely lit, and he could never touch it.

But it must have touched him - with an epiphany.
He must have thought to himself - "I think I'll pop down
to the hardware store in town - buy a hammer and some nails
and nail my asshole to that tree".