Wednesday, February 25, 2009

At Nite Deamons Come Out

At nite deamons come out
to do their deamon business.

Their busniess is not of human wont
but of
vile and sinister
sour fiddles and shiver'd spindles.

Often they will lurk in forgotten places
singing fetid hymns and cursing to stray dogs and cats.
dogs and cats, they cannot curse back.

Deamons will chill out in fearsome fogs
and smoke the stems and sticks
of potent purple dosia.
Grinning; tooth-bared,
getting a slight buzz.

Hark! I beg thee, for I know
they will write poems to Satan
and mail them from firey mailboxes
for Satan to recieve in a couple shiver'd days.

Deamons will slink in the blackest shadows
and when you walk by
they tickle your tits
with a sharp burst of poison'd air
from their wormy lungs
directed at your chest from several metres away.

Deamons will perch atop a fence or spire
just waiting for you to walk by
and drop a rock on your nogg'n.

They will play a game of kick-o-the-can
but instead of a can
they use a human skull.

A deamon is known
in the velvety pitch of a moonless nite
to shit on a fiendish newspapre
and wipe the papre on the windowe of your car.

Beware a deamon should you encounter one!
For I have learn'd:
O, be wary!