The Last Ride

von: Bartok


The black bolt shot across the country at an unbelievable speed.

My head is heavy,

Go, I am done.’

Can’t leave the Chevy,

Are we not one?

His long hand touched the window that was misted,

As he pondered on all the things that were listed,

On his hand the creed of a mind that was twisted.

On his sweating brow the Chevy’s window felt cool,

As they were heading sixty miles towards his old jewel,

His wedding ring, golden, in the eyes of the ghoul.


The black bullet roared like a raging daemon this driver’s hellish steed.

Pretty thing you got there,

What’s the story?

I don’t think that you care,

The tale isn’t gory.’

Will you tell me anyway?

Take of that heavy load.

Are we driving to the bay?

Keep your eyes on the road.’

There was light reflecting off the dark river,

Treacherous water where would it deliver,

Him at last? On his back he felt a shiver.

It was like a cold finger,

That has come here to linger.

Alas, he couldn’t sling’er.


Say cheese.

Thinking of her?

You look pale.

It’s all a blur,

Meant to fail.’

He looked into the mirror and saw with a chill,

A face white as bone. The man leaned in with a thrill,

With a smile and on the other side time stood still.

(She was an alley cat,

From Rockford, Illinois.)

Oh, I wouldn’t say that,

But now hold on cowboy!

Colors became slurs and the grey veil of rain got thicker,

The man pushed the pedal down hard and the car got quicker.

There was a memory and the distant smell of liquor.


Cold breeze.

The dim light of a bar,

The twinkling of a star,

The long leg with a scar.

The arm around his stiff neck,

The sight of that smirking wreck,

Taking him with on the trek.

We are almost there,

Can you feel it?

It’s too much to bear,

Don’t have the grit.’


Fly away fly.

The crows croaked there judging cries,

Starred with shifting scarlet eyes,

Lifted into darkened skies.

Followed the car’s red taillights,

Flapped their wings through cloudy nights,

Fell critters watchers of rites.

Say can I not pass the cup,

Get away with a warning.’

Look, the sun is coming up,

Soon it is to be morning.


Die away die.

Welcome to Jewel, New Jersey, it said on the old sign,

But this once idyllic place of rest had lost its shine,

No more a holiday resort, but a weathered shrine.

Houses were without paint,

Befallen with the taint,

Of a man who was no saint.

What are we doing here,

In this godforsaken town?’

You will not disappear,

I will never let you drown.

They followed Beach View Street to the mighty ocean,

Where the stormy sea was in violent commotion,

Past closed restaurants and a place of devotion.

The Impala stopped on sand and they got out,

And over the crashing of the waves aloud,

And the howling wind he heard the Crow-man shout.


It was as if his vision had a pulse and his pulse had a vision.

You created me with your ink and quill,

And I got to say, man, you got some skill,

But you are obsessed with me,

Were the one who set me free.

You lost your way,

You had to pay.

I’m sorry.

That’s why she died,

That’s why you died,

And that’s why I’m supposed to die.

But I won’t let you kill me

I won’t let you kill me, you hear me?

I won’t.

Look around you,

Is this not where you feel most alive?

A calm lake in the middle of a raging storm.

It’s not time to go home, yet, my friend.

Come back Gordon our work is not finished.’


Über N.-G.H.

Niels interessiert sich für Literatur, Geschichte und Filme/Serien. Seine Forschungsschwerpunkte sind das "Golden Age of Pulp", Herrschaftssysteme und Mythopoetik. Niels ist Mitglied der Deutschen Lovecraft Gesellschaft.
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