The Imp's Mass
Dennis L. Siluk
Note:
"When I look inside myself, to calm my madness down,—I find useless adjectives, friends, love, even useless hate—but at least hate can be retrieved," so says the Imp, Guseyn.
Part I: The Imp's
Useless-death that never sleeps,
Irresolute-shame that reeks,
Inseperatable from reality
Untruthful to their regimes;
They comb the world in nakedness,
And will, 'til the end of time—
These global he-goats, she-goats
Hiding in dark-nooks, hours on end;
Grinding their Pirana like teeth—
Grinding as if to wake the dead.
Part II
"Back off—stop!" (Cries this bleak-angelic-imp Guseyn, to his kin and me ((who is writing this poem)), for its Sunday morning.)
His body wakes to polluted joy;
To evil's leisure, now employed.
Then he flies under a bleak black
Orange laced rainbow of dread
(To do, and meet his quest)
To reach a distant Christian Church,
In time for Sunday morning mass.
