MEPHISTOPHELES
COMES HOME
I dragged Him from the fetid swampland by
the hairs on the back of His hand. Fat cat
alley rat slime bastard that He was. Shot
Him down with one fell swoop - or whatever
they call that crap in the theater. Houselights
dimming, dip-crack of thunder too, lights
back up bright the sky. Any kind of Murder
will do. He was Mephistopholes, that 's why.
-
He said, from many years back, He'd never seen
a milkman, a glazier, an artist, a carpenter nor
anyone who ever drove a truck. He was quite
medieval in his cantankerous ways - drinking
raw milk from a cow's very teat, killing His own
food and game. Starting fires with His eyes - yes,
yes, that's the one that got me the most. Enflamed
me, in fact. Starting fires with His eyes, and then
taking incendiary pleasure in everything in ruins,
all those people hurt, all those lives destroyed.
-
Not by any modern logic would this fly.
I told it to Him, right before He died.
He had to go - the wind was breaking
the treetops, and the whistling sound of
its fearsome speed could only mean danger
and doom; a trifling damsel this was not.
-
And then for myself, I saw the speeding train
approach. I spread my arms out wide and
suddenly sprouted wings. Able to fly and soar
the Heavens, I went where any urge led me.
'Ain't no mountain high enough to keep me
from getting to you...' You all know the rest,
or I hope you do. Mephisopholes comes home.
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