The Funeral Of Mephistopheles

If you squint could you see

If that’s old Mephistopheles,

Arched backwards

Wryly to me,

Like a Hadean jester

Atop terrible ruins,

Crumbling the house of glory

Stone by bitter stone,

A maelstrom of mortar,

Shaken like teeth,

Seething like

The blackened bull,

Or a coiled serpentine,

Lashing his

Fork tongued armoury,

Of deviled fetters,

Weaving dark burrows

Into my bruised

Porcelain skin,

With ugly glory,

The bitter gnawing

That thirsts to

Leave me undone,

Though my crucible crown

Casts her light

Like the sun.

Is it he?

For I am afraid

That the chief priest

Of throwaway schemes

And eater of dreams

Has set his awful sights

Onto me,

He whose fork footed hooves

That trample the seas,

Who fastens his ticks,

And leeches to feed,

On my sour milk rivers

Of blood and of seed,

Has cast his flame gaze

Over to me.

Is it he?

That crazed painter

Of infinite taunt,

His death strokes of fury

Punching through a canvas

Of blood,

Raining hideaway colours

And raw reds deep as rage,

In a hot fire lust

Grown gunpowder grey,

Where circles of smoke

Leave ringlets and stains,

On the canvas of hearts,

To destroy the pure page.

Is it he?

So hear me,

For I have grown tired

Of waiting this out.

I am painting

A handlebar mustache

Onto a white cow,

To show

Absurdity’s cloven hoofs

And her dirty pink snout.

But I buried the devil

In my backyard today.

We sang a dead song

In pantomime play.

Have we forgotten God,

Has He turned away?

In our backwater gardens,

Where lost children play.

The devil lay dead

Of that we were certain;

We plugged up our ears

And drew up the curtains.

But tell me then how,

He still watches me,

With bated breath warm

And thick with sick greed.

Such sublime tragedy

O Mephistopheles,

You terrible dream.

Our groaning eyes

See through your

Brilliant disguise,

But that really means

Nothing

To me.

I’d

rather

Watch

You

Bleed.