Demon
Manufactured from a million
ill-fitting participles
blinking the [abort] light
of syntax error overload,
I am that demon
that appears
rarely disguised.
I have plastic wings
I steal from stories
to fly the night sky
and blood red pyjamas
I wear to comfortably
slouch on my couch
at home.
I am the demon that exposes
himself with a mirror
hanging around his neck
into which some may look
if they have Hamlet’s courage
to see themselves
as I do.
But you, my
veiled angel
with ribbons
of the finest silk
with which to pull
the demonic wailers
from their
dark hole
of hopelessness,
you are Jesus
to my leper
Morrigan
taking my dying
soldier home.
We are the Yin and Yang
of reality,
the binary stars
that dance that elegant
dance that always comes
to an explosive
recalibration.
I have plastic teeth
with which to bite
the hard reality,
a plastic camera
with which to record it
while your velvet hands restrain
and your golden ratio confirms.
The dance,
it speeds and slows,
slows and speeds.
The ill-fitting participles
fly off,
the syntax error overload
flies off,
leaving nothing
but the singularity
of the demon fused
with the angel of light
creating the linguistic
perfection of balance.
