Prophesy

I’m playing with the devil’s cock it’s like a crayon it’s like a fat burnt crayon I’m writing a poem with it I’m writing that down all that rattling heat in this room I’m using that I’m using that tingling rattle that light in the middle of the room it’s my host I’ve always been afraid of you scared you’re god and something else I’m afraid when you’re yellow tawny white it’s okay. Transparent cool you don’t look like home my belly is homeless flopping over the waist of my jeans like an omelette there better be something about feeling fat what there really is is a lack of emptiness I’m aiming for that empty feeling going to get some of that and then I’ll be back