Satan, or the Devil is
a chemist!
He
is a puppet string puller too!
He
is a lustful pauper, a huge bird of the sea, a crewman,
An
amusement for his followers.
Pitiably
he drags his imps,
—awkward
as they are with their large charcoal wings,
He
drags them like oars, -- here, there, wherever!
He
has a crowd of demons wailing round him for this and that!
Trying
to get the okay for: rape, poison, knifings and arson.
If
he could, he would make the world into one big dump.
If
he could, he would swallow the earth in a gulp.
He
is full of blasphemy.
He
clenches his fists at God, as
The
foam of hate dribbles from his lips!
He
talks to the wind and the clouds…
Hypocritically,
what he throws away, his spitting, his ashes
Man
runs to mingle with his filth, he knows this, and this is why
He
does it; and man, he steps over everyone, to get to it!
He
has taken on ancient idols for the 21st Century:
The
drunk, the drugged, the riled, and having everyone one blame
One
another for stepping into his footsteps.
He
gets bored with pious faces, and starts to dig a path to his heart,
That
leads like an ant farm, to his soul.
One
of his many mottos: satiate the favorite, and scornfully he
Throws
a bone his way, he covers the bone with gold, myrrh, incense.
Laughingly,
playfully, and slowly he pulls the pious heart out of its
Breast…the
poet is seeing this, but he is cut off.
Hell,
keeps a place for the poet, as does heaven.
The
blessed and holy legions know the poet, as do the vultures,
Of
hell, the Dominations, the Thrones, the demonic powers!
The
Poet must pray for an enclosure.
The
poet has to keep the holy hearth aglow, as the
Ancient
immortal eyes, tarnished eyes, watch.
He
has given instructions to his hordes, to see the gauche
And
the weak, the handsome, and the comic, and the ugly,
The
sailor and the soldier, the invalid, the exiled!
He
is not biased, it is not man he gives a damn about: rather it is God
But
man is his link to punish God for sour milk…
But
it is fair to say, God uses Satan to weed out the garden.
He
doesn’t walk all that much, lest he take off those ten
Giant
wings of his! But he uses them frequently to sweep, down low
Into
the valleys, and over mountains, through the woods,
Above
the clouds, across the seas…
And
a few times he has even left the starry spheres.
Make
no mistake his agility, is better than an Olympic
Swimmer.
And from where he paces above the clouds
Like
a camel in heat,
He
can search deep into the great expanse, into the
Marshes,
into hobbled spaces: like bars, saloons—even the
Closets
in the Kremlin, and White House.
Happy
is the devil, or demon who can with vigorous wings
Mount
a cloud to plan luminous potential calamities.
All
his followers that were kicked out of heaven,
A
hundred million or so: hover over life on earth, without out
Much
effort, and language is but liken to the smell of a flower:
Voiceless
they communicate.
Written: 9-11-2014 (12:42 a.m.)
