Empathy With The Devil

My flavor is the stuff of locusts.
Hot chili firebrand spitting volcano
teeth.
Bleeding skies, sulpher mines...
The foul breath of Satan's favorite
gutter worm.
You feel me when I'm close - an ice
wind of steel stilettos
hammered in your spine.
Quicksilver nausea spinning, spewing
forth and everything's a mess.
every posession you ever had - wrecked -
lying at your feet.
Telegrams that tell you God is dead
piled high on the TV.
The incessant TV.
Burbling.
Distorted.
A cheesecake nun advertising 20 brands
of sea cow lemon shit in 60 different
languages.
A gargoyle handjives for the hard of
hearing.
Subliminals.
Criminals.
Phoney buisinessmen in thick rimmed
glasses.
Bad comedians.
Laughing bags aping the Hallelujah
chorus - the forgotton version - out of
key (slightly).
Just enough to annoy you.
My flavor is cheap perfume on rotting
Man-Ray maggots!
Dead maggots.
My flavor's a wound re-opening by
surprise, green fishes eyes flowing out.
Wriggling things.
Gelatinous.
Still alive and screaming - out of key
(slightly).
Just enough to annoy you.
My flavor's a plunging elevator a
millisecond before it hits the cellar.
A cellar with mutated rats.
Old - very old - lost teeth.
Abortions.
Garbage.
So pungent it hums - out of key
(slightly).
Just enough to annoy you.
My flavor's your flavor.
Deep within you.
Hidden.
Waiting to get out...