Tuesday, June 6, 2017


My demons are a bit more dignified
They wear Dolce & Gabbana ties
They'll sit down with me
over a cup of tea
and they have such nice stories, which mostly begin about how this wonderful love, this
           dear spirit, was someone different, entirely. And the funny thing is, this corrupt,
           ignoble spirit of a person I met, they tell me, should be treated angelically. This
           is their joke and this is where they like to keep me.

Such charming advice for the bad, who turns to me and laughs

My demons wear clean, Italian shoes
and hand-tailored Italian suits
The Indigenous woman gave me medicine
The monk offered me medicine, too
yet I simply refuse, appealed to by a beautiful glass of whiskey and I have 1.75 more liters
          on top of the fridge
I pushed the Indigenous woman away and to the monk, I explained everything that my
          demons had to say
I was standing at confession and suddenly felt faint
and they smiled
When the monk gave me Holy water, they still smiled, they knew how we would flush it out
          later that day
When I had left the holy place that was filled with incense smoke and the prayers of the
          saints, I realized that I no longer light two candles, I don't even light one
I should've mentioned the Russian girl in confession
but my demons make me forget
Pushkin reminded me today
of love and dark skin
but no one's as dark as my demons are; I was researching female body types that
         suggest more room inside when I heard that I was Dionysus
but my own behavior is more dignified
I tell myself that and I make myself mad
No, I am a tree, firmly planted; I am at one with the universe and at peace
but these roots keep sucking up the wrong things and it's making me diseased; I
          should've listened to the Indigenous woman, or at least the monk because my
          bark is now showing from the roots to the trunk, tell-tale signs of rot from
          the inside
but these demons wear top-hats and have canes; how can I explain their subtle swagger?
          They'd have me dance right into hell on the edge of a dagger
but these gods of the ancient Greeks, ever dirty and never clean, and sirens' songs are
          my demons' gift to me

I breathe sins

and tragedies.

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