Hell In a Nut Shell
He didn't mention scotch
But I get a faint whiff of it when he talks.
He reads like a book
Written in languages
That no longer exist.
He says he's a sin eater
From a long line of sin eaters,
Boasting on the sun-scorched
Pointing to a registry, hard covered,
Is a doubt-quenching list
Of witnesses' first hand accounts;
Ones who've seen him
Spitting out souls like watermelon seeds.
Now, Just showing off;
Hardly eating people any more;
Words come out humming,
Drowning and speaking,
Both at the same time.
To draw out the creature,
To bring out the features;
The castoffs of a greater entity;
Making identification unmistakingly sure,
He tells me he does this:
With a whirl of his forearm,
He pools dark energy in a tight,
A left-hand path dance,
Riddled with the right kind of ecstasy.
A theatrical description
Of the madman's method;
The way he pulls,
In a morbid seduction,
The necessary faithful response of the called.
By way of his authoritative motions,
In plain view of us both,
On haunches, paws out,
Like would any good Pavlov dog.
Spectre obedience to these simple commands
It was well-past my better-be-going exit
Off his property
And safely back on to mine.