Waltzing with the Devil

In a house, apartment, in a palace pulsing
away from that idle pressure on my nape,
I possess minds which are courtesans: my cured
extremities are waltzing with the devil.
You might think of a sentient rhythm, a drone
sashaying in a cruel intercourse
wearing Venetian masks in mockery of
those gods compelled to eat burgers after caviar:
I love it when your china is spread on toast.
A thought would hover, a buzzing tinnitus
reminds you of a kindly perverted uncle
flagging down a platonic boy, blindfolded
by a riddle of locusts: come Abaddon
in a pitch of flies smothered by Beelzebub.
You would think I am the illegitimate
by-product of lazy rituals, couples
idling on the fence with hanging genitals
watching a pornographic film: during the
day I am Asmodai, a braying lust held
in a choke-hold at night when dutifully
I pray for the deliverance of daylight
ushered by the roaring birth of Lucifer.