The Devil Went to the Convention

by Steven Earl Yoder

To the tune of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” performed by The Charlie Daniels Band, written by Charlie Daniels, Tom Crain, “Taz” DiGregorio, Fred Edwards, Charles Hayward, and James W. Marshall.
Based on events that occurred at JerseyDevilCon 2003.

 

Jersey Devil went to the convention
But he didn’t know the deal
But soon he’d find
An exposed behind
Can become a really big deal

Well, he came across a reunion
Full of women, and some were hot!
And the women raised
His loincloth just
To see what he has got

I guess they didn’t know it
But some girls were watching too
And they ran to whine to coachy even though they liked the view
And he came down all in a rage
Asking what the desk would do
Put the con on hold
Get the shields of gold
And if you won’t I’ll sue!

The man said I’m the Jersey Devil
And I didn’t mean to sin
But the coach was set
He wasn’t satisfied yet
Until all the cops came barging in

Devil cover up your bone and make sure it ain’t hard
Cause hell’s broke loose at the convention and the cops hold all the cards
And even though the law is biased and seems a little old
They’ll put you in a cell that’s damp and cold

The devil quickly covered up
Putting an end to the show
But the girls had seen enough
And said the coach just had to know

They ran upstairs to wake him up
And he said “What the hell is this?”
And the M.O.D. joined right on in
And he dealt the fatal kiss

[Instrumental]

When the police arrived they said
Jersey Devil you look pretty good old son
But Edison’s a town that
Doesn’t allow that kind of fun

Don’t look down and
Run girls run!
The Jersey Devil’s at the con and he’s out for fun
Nothin’ but a loincloth if you looked you know
The Edison police said
He had to go

[Instrumental]

The devil bowed his horns
In fatalistic defeat
And he walked out to the squad car
With some jeans over his meat

Johnny Law said Devil now don’t come back
And if you ever try again
Charged you once son of the Leeds witch
We’ll be glad to charge you again

Now don’t look down and
Run girls run!
The Jersey Devil’s at the con and he’s out for fun
Nothin’ but a loincloth if you looked you know
The Edison police said
He had to go

 

Virus-Infected Love Poem

by Rob Balder

 

Your beauty breaks me down,
and your grace sweeps the dust of me away.
In the warmth of your love,
I am nurtured and real again.
You make me yearn to be a better man.

A powerful, strong,
and confident man.
To raise up my finer qualities,
so that you will always love me.
So that everyone will love me.

The way I should be loved.

And they will know me,
the way I know myself.

They will have to love me.

They will worship me.

Me.

Only me.

Me, me, me, mememe me memememe meme…

 

Cloned for War

Cloned for War

Illustration by J. Andrew World

by Michael D. Pederson

To the tune of “Born to Run,” written and performed by Bruce Springsteen.

 

In the day we sweat it out in the gyms of a renegade Republic planet
At night we are prematurely aged, at a rate of two-to-one
Sprung from creches on Kamino Prime
Plasteel, egg-shell armored
And steppin’ off the assembly line
(Ohhh!)
Baby, these clowns buy their clones off the rack
A half-price sale, it’s a plan to fail
They’re gonna go on making more
’Cause troops like us, baby we were cloned for war
(Yes, boy we were)

Jango Fett came in, donated chromosomes
He took a clone to raise and trained him
Just close your mind to the ethics, man,
And plant your ass on my Xerox
Genetics says we can break this cell
Split the nucleus, assemble the proteins back
(Ohhh!)
’Till we’re all the same as our “Father”
Yeah baby, I’m just a pawn and cannon fodder
But I want to know why we feel
’Cause I know my death is certain
Yeah, I know for sure my death is real
(Oh, can you save me?)

In the Outer Rim heavy powered drones scream through the atmosphere
Word comes down from the Jedi Council
And the clones are moved en masse
The transport shuttle comes in cold and fast
Troops are loaded on a ship in the night
I’m gonna die somewhere distant on a desert world
In an everlasting fight
(Hah!)

(1-2-3-4!)
The junkyard’s filled with battle droids, they’re the last wave that got fried
Everybody’s out on the front tonight
But there’s no place left to hide
Together we’ll all be killed in the battle
Just a herd of walking cattle in white suits
Someday soon, I don’t know when
I’m gonna get that order
That will finally send me in
And I’ll die in the fore
But ’till then, troops like us
Baby we were cloned for war

Awww buddy, troops like us
Baby we were cloned for war

 

Secrets

Secrets

Illustration by J. Andrew World

by Rochelle Mitchell

 

You’ve seen me working at the corner bar.
You sip your weak beer
While your bloodshot eyes follow
The seam of my fishnet stockings,
But, honey, you aren’t my type.

My friend, Sarah, who works at the blood bank,
Gives me the discarded blood,
Tainted blood,
Spoiled blood,
In sterile plastic sealed containers.

She says I’m kinky
When I bite her neck or her thigh.
She coos in delight
And laughs at the truth,
My truth.

Vampires are chic now.
All the rage.
The kids into the gothic scene
Wear black eye make-up on
Ghoul white faces.

You see another Goth Girl.
I am pale skin and moonlight,
With black hair and a pierced tongue.
I keep my secret safe
By hiding in plain sight.

 

Eyes

by Rochelle Mitchell

 

Black pupils in white glowing eyes
Peer through the darkness.
They entrap me,
Promising secrets of another world,
Another way of being.

If I give in to them,
I will lose my soul.
Am I willing to trade
One soul for another?
One life for another?

No, I say,
But those eyes beckon me closer,
Closer and closer.
Lying to me.
Hypnotizing me.

 

Graveyards

by Rochelle Mitchell

 

All that remains of my family
Are names and dates etched in stone.
I stop to put flowers on my sister’s grave,
But the night calls.

Who shall die tonight so I shall live?
Someone’s sister or brother?
Husband or wife?
How many plots have I filled?

The crypts give no reply.
All is silent,
Except for the dry autumn leaves
Crackling under my feet.

 

Always a Goth Chick

Always a Goth Chick

Illustration by J. Andrew World

by Rob Balder

To the tune of “Always a Woman,” written and performed by Billy Joel.

 

She’s a pretty young bundle of classic neuroses,
And she wears a black cape, just like Bela Lugosi’s.
And she thinks about death to a frightening degree.
Yes she’s morbid and sick, but she’s always a Goth chick to me.

She can stay paper-thin without doing aerobics,
But she can’t get a tan ’cause she’s heliophobic.
Yes she’s sadly deficient in Vitamin D.
Flies by night like a moth, but she’s always a Goth chick to me.

Oh, did you notice the doom,
When she entered the room,
With her boyfriend in drag?

Oh, and she’s pale as a Borg.
Like she came from the morgue.
And fell out of the bag.

In her lightest of moods, she is cranky and snappy.
No one’s ever succeeded in making her happy.
So if you see her smile you should probably flee.
Keeps a lid on her glee, but she’s always a Goth chick to me.

And she’ll probably end up with an English degree.
She stays with her clique, but she’s always a Goth chick to me.

Oh, she won’t carry a purse.
She can quote Poe by verse.
She’s extremely perverse.

Oh, and it only gets worse.
She lives under a curse.
Pick her up in your hearse.

She will give you a stare, like she’s going to kill ya.
Then she’ll offer you sex, but it’s like necrophilia.
Which is effing depressing, I’m sure you’ll agree.
With her Celtic tattoo, nothing Prozac can do, ’cause she’s always a Goth chick to me.

And she’ll never admit that she’s from Tennessee.

All alone in the hallway, she’s always a Goth chick to me.

 

Beach Boys

by Rob Balder

 

A being on a blue world, thinking.
It has problems.
It likes yellow sunlight,
and cool water,
and soft sand.
It likes attractive members of the opposite gender.
It likes simple foods, with high caloric content.

There are only 191,704 galaxies
between it and me.

We are not now connected,
But we will be, someday.
Its kind will grow,
will interconnect,
will come to meet my kind.
Or the opposite.

Complexity’s exponent will graph skyward.
Plodding entropy will sigh in defeat.
The Universe will know itself.

Because one of us will wish for something more
than California girls.

One of us needs more than
a cheeseburger in paradise.