There
was someone else in the photograph
I
opened my eyes and mind to the Devil
Yesterday
was two days ago
Now
I wither in glorious solitude
Waiting
for a fitful tomorrow
Books
and knives
I
cut the inscription from the binding
Tore
at the mouth that breathed without bleeding
And
set fire to the nightstand
Demonic
possession
Is
a national pastime
Like
baseball, like wrist-cutting
Celluloid
front window mannequins
Dance
to next year’s songs
And
melt into perfect puddles
An
esoteric drunk
An
exorcist out of work
What
will spill forth from this stained palette?
This
planchette will spell it all it out
Eventually
