You and the Devil

You're just the kind that in high school heard adult's warnings about getting intoxicated/stoned and scoffed. You knew why it was a lie before you knew it was racist. And the cross-eyed kids with metal hearts, clothes and breath smelling of oil, didn't put any ideas in your head where you didn't know where to find them... Yet maryjane's flowers aren't as innocent as the native salesman told you. The miniscule red veins hold juice not listed on your pocketsized table of elements. You light, suck, cough and the gift folds itself into ashes. Eight-second memories become engendered with the entirety of the universe. You don't believe in the Devil. Your reason is sharper than that. Yet you'd swear a man with wings and a tail could be discerned in the shadows beyond your porch last midnight. Everything smells like wolfblood and a sense of pale, nocturnal carnage so generic its hard to dismiss gets to working itself into your lungs and your synapses and reality can barely account for itself. Butterflies are real. Hummingbirds are real. Dolphins are real. It's quiet.... Certainly tomorrow's only fire will come from matches and the sun. 




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