This is an ongoing series of poems, sort of, about the devil, sort of.
These are not the finished (or even most recent) versions, or all of what I have so far, but it's somethin'.


- one -

Somewhere in fading urban streets there is a demon, carrying a sack, burlap folds of eternity piled on his back. Leaking words on the dirty concrete, this thief grins as he steals away. He reaches for the flask at his hip, drains my adjectives. they taste metallic on his teeth, filed sharp for editing souls. He goes home to his satanic apartment. Messages on the machine from a desperate angel. Sets his sack of thoughts down on the couch, next to the old Blondie tapes. He makes a lonely soup of stolen words, eats it standing up in the kitchen.

He doesn't offer me a drop.


- two -

26 different channels of porn
and nothing good on.

He cracked his knuckles, ran long-nailed fingers through dark hair.
Gave up on trying to relax.
A pile of paperwork on a desk made of frozen fire.
Singing distractedly along to Jimi.
A leather-bound list of names.
A finger sliding down them, an arbitrary pointer fate.

-beepbeepbeep-

A casual glance at a small glowing box.
Her again. Contemplation. The biting of a lip.
Eh, what the hell.


- three -


His ashtray is a skull. Fake, of course. Made by a friend as a decorated joke. Eyelashes drawn on empty sockets with a Sharpie.

He thinks about writing a letter.

"You know, I’m not perfect. That’s to be expected, but it doesn’t... fit. My eyes are shattering out my skull.

"I miss you. Is it so wrong that I tried to explain myself? Tried to open up; women always ask for that, but when they get it, they go. I guess it's my own fault, but I never expected to fall inside my own designs. Come back. I won't say please, and because of that you claim it is the only thing that you need."

Fuck this. He lets the blood just spatter on the page in random gestures. Let her take this as she likes. He moves a long nail over short horns. The thought of destroying something bubbles up, and he picks up his book again.


- four -


It worried him the first few eras,
as if dreaming were a joke he wasn’t in on.

(Did he have everything he wanted,
or did he have nothing to fear losing?)

The devil doesn’t dream,
but he doesn’t sleep much anyway.

He likes to fuck into a stupor,
or get fucked up into a coma.
...This way he sleeps deep.

The devil doesn’t dream,
but he’s pretty sure he knows why.

When you’re always being dreamt about,
you eventually find it harder to do yourself.

...This is why pop idols die.


- five -
A girl is looking into a mirror, and thinking. Composing an ode with her eyes. Remembering, and doing her best to document. If you repeat phrases the right number of times, you don’t ever forget.

"The devil asks me questions, starts with curses and ends with little mumbles, with adorable intentions. I would laugh like an angry mother in the public eye, I would smile at his never-ending ploys that are never followed through."

The girl is contemplating calling him, but thinks better of it. Besides, he has a fondness for static. She starts putting on cosmetics.

"I don’t like layers. Rather, they are things I can’t stay away from. I have a tragic attraction to psychosis and dependency. These are also my greatest fears. I am a psychological hypochondriac. He likes to tell me I’m crazy. I am a captive of reverse astrology. ‘Forget the stars, you’ll find your future in the dirt.’ That’s what he likes to tell me.

“He calls me a slut, he calls me a heartless bitch. He calls himself a whore, but will not whore himself to me. The devil likes to see me bend on dampened knee. He thinks it’s funny when I drink, he knows he drives me to it. The devil asks me questions, and never once waited for an answer.”


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