Old Nick

Maybe you will meet him in Subway entrance, involuntary Hellmouth of present-day. Maybe you will pass him in the night club. Maybe he is your friend, and you will make a deal with him, to bargain your old habit into healthiness for just one last day. Maybe he is seductive, dark-eyed, and gives you directions on what to do and where to go next. Maybe he is wearing a costume this time of year, and laughing madly from behind his mask. He has manipulated you into laughter at the expense of others, and suddenly you are uncomfortable about it. Maybe he is not methodical at all, but instead unbridled about his anger. Maybe he gave you the easy way out: a gun, a knife, a drug. Maybe he is the sweet success of that sex with the one you know won’t last or the wife you’d rather bury. You worked so hard on this, but its security and stability are an illusion. And also allusion, to your deepest, darkest insecurities. You taste bloodied salt blood, the kind that is sugary corn syrup and a headache to remove. Sugar sugar. The trauma of humanity. My god is a merciful god, and excuses my fuckups too much. “Mercy” means no boundaries in Hebrew. The Mercy Seat is where I sit at Nick’s right hand. Which of these is true? And there he is at the entrance to the Underworld, offering me kisses. Judas kisses. Acting a friend but never a fool. Betrayers are good at giving you security, not adversity.

Every Christ needs a killer. Every winner needs someone telling them they could not do it. Every Saddam needs a sidekick. The buriers of bodies in mass graves. For you help the collective consciousness forget. Every you needs a me, who makes the blood stream out of your eyeballs. Methodical household murderer, the kind discovered after 20 years. Pol Pot, the pyramids of skulls stacked in trenches. Our Universe will eliminate entire concept-beings. You have no place in my heart, no harmony there. You spreaders of Christianity, you spreaders of lighthearted gospel. Make me the Baphomet with two backs.

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