Demons past.

Demons present.

Demons to come.

I salute you.

But I rebuke you.

I copulate with the very core of you.

For I am you and you know my truth.

The world is a lesson in pain, in shame, in happiness and love ever lasting.

Some come easy, some trickle down the walls of societal asylums like adolescent suicidal plasma, pining for the mercy of its elders.

Dowsing the flames of panic with intoxicants and carnal coitus, running from life with an eye to your back and a hint at the horror of the heart.

Distance is key. From them, from those, from it. But you are it. It is you. How can you run from that? Constant crashing contradictions that create bipolar politicians, within your soul. SOS. Distress. Trick or treat? Neither, for I'm a believer in tired eyes and plane rides. Run to the world if you like. Run to the sun. Run to you.

Midnight holds the key to a contented sanctuary the hermit can strive for in daily bread, give us this. You're the baker, you're the yeast, you're the fucking self raising sour coming up from the gut of,

Demons past.

Demons present.

Demons to come.

Hold their hands and dance a circle coated in flame, fumble about their love, cut out their truth, boil it, frame it, forget it.

You're my waste of time in the twilight. My repose from the social domination of daylight, and that's not to dishonour the Lord of light, he's just a popular choice amongst the masses, he holds a key, gasses, stuffed with vitamin D and they sow they're seeds in it, gayly.

But, again, you're forgetting; you are them and they are you.

They are your demons and theirs are you.

But who wants to share?

Our personal demons allow us the acquiescence to wallow in a lake of lament, soothing soul stress blisters, or brooding over stolen shards of heart glass, robbed by obsessive infatuation and adolescent loyalty to unfair, preprogrammed unities of violence and power. Man is more than capable of devouring its own anonymity amongst the ether, but demons seal the deal.

Is this a slush stacked riddle off the cuff with not a care for critical rebuff? You're fucking right it is. Life is. And you are life. Note to self; if it ain't for you then it ain't for them. So scratch their reward from your intention and carry on in riddle and dirt. You need not their clapping hands to ease childhood's abandoned questions. Yet they need you to need just that or there's never going to be any of 'that' and they like 'that', don't they?

Don't question why you seek to elicit their tears with your web of words, for a like in the dark, a five star remark, can cut the rope. But one.. Well that's still one. A fallen one. A Demon. An angelic son. So worship that one star for all it delivers, it's free energy and you need a home inside of them. Scalpel your way in. From the top. They've given you that invitation and if they don't know it yet your hand on their spine will soon straighten it all out.

For you are them and they are you.

They are your demons and theirs are you.

Writing from the mattress

fog bank head

sinuses drained to gums

pulse heavy in ear

filling an old notebook

Saturday night on Central

a waxed-brain drive to the drug store for medicine

sweating in line

the guy behind the counter

looked slightly

touched with

Downs syndrome or

fetal alcohol syndrome

or a premature birth

but whatever it was

he also had an angry look on

his face, a chip on his shoulder,

something to prove

-a little chubby cowboy

in his heart

wanted payback

for something

on some level-

He looked up at me

and asked me if

I was drunk

and if I drove there

a few people in line

looked me up and down

I ignored him while he put

the Tylenol in the bag but

he handed me the bag

and told me he was

serious about

it

was I drunk

I stared down at him:

Why? You want to fuck me?

an old man in line started laughing

but I kept my eye across the counter at his half-frightened stare

and started to feel bad

anyone with a normal brain

would be

able to tell by my color and sweat that I was sick

I waited for the war to rage

but he just stood there with

his mouth half open

wide moon eyes

and a mole sprouting hair

just under his eye socket

I looked dead at it

and something changed

inside me, something in the

heart

a flicker

or a trick of light

a feeling that

his face

was my whole past

staring at me

I smiled at him:

I'm sorry, buddy. I'm just sick, and I need to sleep. Make it a good night.

Back here in bed I can't get that mole out of my mind

and I worry that he's even more aware of it now

and I worry that

I hurt his feelings

and I know it's going

to keep me awake all night

even though it brought

an old man some joy

and showed me

the past is

more breakable

than I thought

it was.

The notes

Hit me

Right in the

Perfect

Unimaginable chink

I had no idea

It was there

Struck

Fuck

Hard

To catch

My breath

Place the distance

The space

Between the impact

And the consequence

Push back

Sustain

My composure

Disclosed

Exposed

You got me

Completely

Discreetly

Captivated

Drawing light

Igniting life

From every single word

Inhaling

Communication

Filling the void

Poised with elation

High on vibration

Temptation

Flirtation

Unexpectedly

The sounds

From the piano

Float

The history

Of your story

Denote

The vivid

Colours

Of your character

Program

Terminated