THE DEMON AND THE DEVIL

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I've met the devil.

There exist people made of them,

multiples laid brick by brick.



That stone tower grows laboriously.

As they age they feel an incessant need,

stricken with a dreadful itch that asks them to repeatedly repaint it.

All you'll see is a musty shrunken hovel,

housing stacks of nothing.

Missing pages, and inbred trend reports.

I've been there,

rubbed my eyes and swore I needed glasses.

The truth is, I see just fine.

The lies pour concrete round-the-clock

and so the demons must move quickly,

keep up their graceless motion,

a constant brick laying machine.

I've met the devil and his demon.

I've seen her anyway,

from afar, too close for my liking.

With pinched chalk lips, translucent swells of skin

and painted toes fat and curling.

He aims to fool you into believing he's ageless,

but his troubledness will give him away.

She's a soft sullen, like a pipe cleaner in knots,

Making work, hanging his portraits.

I've met the demon and her devil in a dream.

My child-like self popped her balloon-face with a pin

and out oozed fermented syrup,

the stench of alcohol,

an ammonia-damp piss.

I watched in horror as they fell into each other's arms.

Tongues everywhere, flashing cameras.

The slurping sound has stayed with me.

I was a guest at their wedding.