Rising Demons
they are not red and muscular
but translucent and piss-thin,
they don't howl or scream
but sigh softly in my inner ear,
they take flight, not with a shadow
-bearing wingspan, but silently
their horns, like obelisks, push up
through the the earth
silver, plastic, painted in a factory
in central china, smelling of £land
if I were a lesser being I'd have shit
myself by now, instead I just smile.
Take nothing from the hatch
we have something you don't here,
a simplicity like open fires
and liquor hot down our throats,
the hole is filled with flesh
feathers, dead pigeons
a warm smile from close relatives,
a scribbled out paragraph
on the final page of long novel
the sharp edge of your elbow
cutting into my ribs,
eyes and teeth, a smirk
a snarl, your hot breath in my face.
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