Demons

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.