The Exorcist Lover

An exorcist fell in love with a demon.

When he arrived, the young girl was held down in her bed; her arms tied to the bedposts with nude stockings. Her parents hung by the doorway, afraid to walk in, their eyes sunk from worry and sleeplessness.

Right away he could tell the spirit in the room was different from other spirits he had encountered. One minute the girl was twisting in dervishes of agony; the next she was gasping with laughter, but with an undercurrent of pain, as you would if your feet were being tickled against your will 30 seconds beyond than you thought was possible to bear. Then there were stretches where the demon seemed to lose interest; the girl lay still, breathing heavily from her exertions.

As was his custom, the exorcist threw open the drapes to let the fixed gray of winter light into the room. The spirit reacted with a subtle gesture, as a sleeper would lift an arm to cover her eyes: the girl throttled slightly and a rivulet of sputum dribbled from her lips. The exorcist commenced chanting in Latin. The demon responded by popping a few mean-looking boils on the girl’s forehead. They wept. The exorcist came back with louder oaths and lit candles. The demon, annoyed, slammed the room with a fetid wind. The mother cried out, her skirt whirling feverishly.

It as then that the demon left the girl and burrowed into the exorcist’s soul. He felt her probing inside him, as one would rummage through a pantry, not expecting to find anything. She paused near his heart, a can stripped of its label. He, accustomed to much more violence, held his breath, and in that moment of suspension, the demon let out a wail that leaped through his throat, rattling his molars. They began speaking in tongues together, Rahsaan Roland Kirk blowing two horns.

The girl blinked her eyes open. The exorcist’s pupils rolled back in his head. He began groping blindly for the exit. Stepping aside, the parents rushed toward their daughter’s bedside. The exorcist fumbled down the stairs and out the front door. The demon gathered inside him like smoke in a glass mouth down.

Songs For

Songs for fat featherweights.

Songs for unsharpened pencils that still write.

Songs for the tired wives of hooligans.

Songs for upright rats.

Songs for near-sighted voyeurs.

Songs for sleeping with your clothes on.

Songs for brushing your teeth with your finger.

Songs to declare bankruptcy by.

Songs for unwanted children.

Songs for hit-or-miss diplomacy.

Songs for the inside of small wooden boxes.

Songs for unkempt fur.

The Women of Our Village

You would count yourself fortunate to marry a woman from our village. They are known for their sloping shoulders, which they off set with open-necked collars as is custom during autumn when our poets are moved to write about beauty and suicide.

Our women have broad foreheads as smooth and untroubled as a sand dune. Their hair is as black as a new concert T-shirt. They laugh into their fists. They sneeze like cats. You will never hear, or smell, their farts. There is a soft, invisible down that covers their entire epidermis that, when transposed to film, radiates the glow of white rose petals.

Legend has it that a traveling salesman once came through our village and was so taken by their charms that he blinded himself so that he could love again.

Our women administer extraordinary blow jobs that make you feel like a rocket with hooves. They are a new panoramic media that makes you hate sleep. They will listen with their eyes closed so you can say anything. Their arms form the most tender saddles to hold your head when you are defeated. They will say you are not defeated. The women of our village are not known to live very long, but you will find that their ghosts are even more beautiful.

Reverse Symphony

First movement is a symphony of coughing into fists, outright coughs, half-swallowed coughs, uncontrollable bursts of coughing as from flu or bronchitis.

Intermission: string quartet plays for 15 minutes, piece optional.

Second movement returns to coughing. One cougher is so vocal and persistent, we worry for his health, adding to the tension.

Third movement is a solo cougher who begins quietly with a few stifled coughs. This escalates into barking coughs. Ending with a cough that is audible only to a few people.