To sell their trinkets and praise their nonexistent powers.
To charge their crystals and rub their wands together and catch a ride home from their mothers.
As they have to clear out, for the new age healers are booked for tomorrow.
As the comic book nerds scoff, eager for a turf war as the idiots hunting Sasquatch roll their eyes, banging on trees as a grizzly licks his lips.
The old-world secrets aren't sold at Barnes and Noble, but the sexy satanist always prefers his wicked attire off the Hot Topic shelves.
As the sad old warlocks sit, banned, casually jerking off from the dark side of the food court. Oh, the tragedy.
To be so very special in an irrelevant era of social media whores.
While the dinosaur truckers chase their lizards, counting their dollars.
To choose between a fully loaded chilly dog or a shower, for it’s at least been three weeks.
While the goth girls keep dancing, oblivious to it all.
For if this neon cast coffin is rocking.
Well, my darling, it appears it’s a mad, sad, fully fucked world, after all.
John Patrick Robbins is the curator of the John Patrick Robbins Occult Museum and Underwater Reading series located on Knotts Island, North Carolina.
He is the current Poet Laureate of Hell. If you speak his name on Facebook and acknowledge you are friends, the other open mic poets won't like you or share their Ramen noodles with you.
He writes books with words in them.
He just opened his themed restaurant: The Donner Party All You Can Eat Buffet.
He uses black sorcery called humor that offends idiots who need to purchase a tractor to pull a needle out their asses and lighten the fuck up.
He enjoys binge drinking and summoning demons to play Monopoly with while listening to death metal because Christian Rock sucks donkey dick.
He is also the greatest bio writer in history.