Friday, 26 November 2010

#9: The Red Man

On the banks of the firelake
fiends bask like waterproof cats.

Satan himself sits warming
the red mosaic of his belly,

a pitchfork gripped in his palms
like a fishing rod.

He is toasting a living head.
Its jaw works silently, skin blistering,

eyes drooling like marshmallows.
Hell is clement, quiet.

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