Even smashed you know all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, the kings them-
selves, are myth. All in all, it’s 5 o’clock somewhere, so, don’t sweat it: if you’re late
now, speak now or forever hold your piece, the not was always tied with all. Neck and
necklace, foci of the buck toothed leech, slide into the first base orifice and you run home,
which is nowhere. You’re glued to the stool and the practical joke comes in hand in
handy giving you all the more reason to drink. Putting down your roots with insults on
the house, you listen to your gut wrenching meaning until the eponymous epiphany is
hippopotamus. You practice hypnosis and end dizzy, wagging your finger in the faces of
the server that cackling, prophecy your ascent to the throne and enumerate the ingredients
of your drink:

                                    Toad, that under cold stone                                    
Days and nights has thirty-one                                    
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,                                     
Fillet of a fenny snake,                                    
Eye of newt and toe of frog,                                    
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,                                    
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,                                    
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,                                    
Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,                                    
Witch's mummy, maw and gulf                                    
Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark,                                    
Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark,                                    
Liver of blaspheming Jew… 


You block out the lunatic racist who’s dressed like Ubu Roi and hope it’s Halloween.
You jack a lantern; both trick and treat yourself. The hot product has you glowing until
you’re swept away into the topic of cancer where you’re side swept by malaria and swept
up in the hubbub on modern hygiene and modern death. You melt down and burn up.
You scatter your ashes and your joss money, then someone angrily hands you an ashtray
and a spirit. There’s no broom and claustrophobia closes in. First you break out into song,
then it’s acne, then hives. While belting The Circle of Lifea teen begins pawing at you,
introducing themselves as Winnie, the shit. Some auxiliary under-agers endanger your
cred, befriending you. You threaten you know kung-fu—pandemonium bamboozles with
kazoos that cage you into atonal loneliness. The group of seven or so lose interest and
retreat to smoke a tree. You sick Smoky the bare-breasted bouncer on ‘em, reminding:
only you can prevent… For, rest assured, leave that alone and they’ll light a fire under
your ass. Security blankets you, the wrong one and no one special. Suffocated, you ask
for space and due time. Busting out of the peeling burn-cocoon, which the ozone let
through, you’re branded new. The social butterfly, you go here, you go there, you go nuts.
You spear a pickled onion, you spear a pickled egg, you spear a peck of pickled peppers
Peter Piper picked. Peter Piper picks a fight and is boxed by a FedEx-cop. Crooked dirty
bastard sends him to the grave in a corset. Of course it was a casket. Draped around the
cask, you may or may not drown in a pool of your own aged drivel. Then, against all
odds, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, all the kings themselves, put you back
together again with your bed via cab and cab fare, letting you off with a chivalrous warn-
ing that strikes you as an oracle’s puff-piece. You count your losses and sheep and dream
of me.



Sacha Archer is a writer that works in numerous mediums as well as being the editor of Simulacrum Press ( His work has been published in journals such as filling Station, Nod, Utsanga, Otoliths, Matrix, FIVE:2:ONE, Sonic Boom, Futures Trading, Timglaset, Touch the Donkey and Politics/Letters Live. Archer has two full-length collections of poetry, Detour (gradient books, 2017) and Zoning Cycle (Simulacrum Press, 2017), as well as a number of chapbooks, the most recent being TSK oomph (Inspiritus Press, 2018), Contemporary Meat (The Blasted Tree, 2018) and Autopsy Report (above/ground). His visual poetry has been exhibited in the USA, Italy, and Canada. Some of that work, among other things, can be found on his website, Archer lives in Ontario, Canada.