MOUTH, THE DEMON KID:
Sometimes talking is easy. Sometimes I talk too much.
Sometimes talking is hard before I even open my mouth.
The head decides it doesn’t want to play, works out a
‘strategy’ all it’s own without consulting me, runs
ahead to lay traps, grows horns. I know this one well.
He likes to rebel, knows no restraint, creativity into
cruelty – no love. I got a trick for days like these.
A mantra I chant behind the wheel.
Turn the radio off, expose the demon child, open every
cupboard in the head-house, name every negative I find.
Call each by it’s name then call it’s opposite twin in
to take it’s place. By the time I touchdown, with a grinning,
face there’s a sunroof where the hair used to be.
He’s an old friend, the demon kid. Thinks he’s such a rebel,
but has nothing good to offer. Just a gripe a mile wide & a
churning gut. Roadblock to a soul song, black hole, bear trap
concealed beneath leaves.
Sometimes talking doesn’t want to come out to play,
but I got a trick.