tonight i sit with the devils
sipping fire, quenching their forked tongues
entertaining them, complaining to them about them
futility in reality, but what am i
if not optimistic
we talk of abuse, the violence of language
the Beatles, Cannibal Corpse, and Charlie Parker in between
slithered words and back-eyed jabs
reaching for the soft spots of each other’s hyprocrisy
our hidden violence
how the abused slank into the corner
eyes red-shot, bourbon bruised, wistful, demure
in the presence of these devils, their slithering words
nocure.nocure.
we whittle the while
still awhile
nocure
and i talk to the devils, each inch of my tongue
splits – separates, forming an emptiness
the middle less meat where my niceties explain
the devil i once was
is the devil each became
