Poem 146: Prelude to Recipe for Painless Light

There is a demon crouching at the bottom of the cupboard. He cannot
speak.He has never been able to speak. He was struck dumb in the night
of his birth.He is surrounded by a field of dark silence that absorbs all sound
on contact. His skin is the colour of ink, a colour deep enough to pass your
hand or your whole body through. His lips are blue-black and snake like,
smoke is pouring from his eyes. The smell of the smoke is autumnal
reminiscent of leaves and dung, of November mist. A crown of lilies of the
field adorn his head, they are always freshly cut, there is dew on the petals.
Warlords bicker in his groin. He is praying within himself, a repetitous
prayer for the end of sanity and the resolution of chaos. His desire is to live
peacefully on that narrow ledge where ice and fire meet.
Also in the cupboard is a chessboard yellowed with age. The chess
pieces are made of obsidian and ivory. The white king and black queen
are missing, they have run off together, looking for a different kingdom.
The demon watches closely the clouds and stars that swirl in the grain
of the wood as he listens for the coming sound of light through the crack
in the door.