The process of digestion for demons is like
Global Warming. A chill up the spine is a sign
That things are getting hotter and so much the same
As it was in the sixties. When breath is aflame
There can be no concluding that everything’s fine
Yet we’ll speak with a blow torch beyond the hot mike.
I do this, but I like it. Need I be concerned
That such creature I might be? My words may burn through
Any means that presents them. Then what have I done
But ignited my message so that I’ve reached none
But perhaps those who have heated breath as I do?
I don’t need to get with them. That lesson I’ve learned.
When I don’t harbor hot breath do I find relief
In the moment for not being part of the hell
That is sprung up around me? Or do I mistake
My delusion for innocence? Peace I must make
With the human machinery within I dwell.
The life spans of most demons is known to be brief.