Belzebuth

Hits heavy, sells out
coliseums; just a guy
on a wall alive
with black pixels,
aloft on Jolly
Rogers.  In the neighborhood,
under the bridge,
in the basement
with vaseline & the cloak
of a lamb.  In the compound
of eyes, doors never closed.
There never was a lock
that could hold Belzebuth
at the wrong end
of a one-way street. Hold
counsel with the bag
of bones, larva in the flames
of blood red
candle.  Older than men,
repulsed by them, fed by their
left hands under blacklight in his
big corner office, each
buffalo wing another offering,
another stain on his zebra-
skin rug. Lately he's
doodling during staff meetings,
zoned out & scrolling his Instafeed
for health goths & hot young
witches with low self esteem. The Astral
made material, he'll project
next quarters' earnings,
liquidate his Swiss savings accounts,
delegate the melting down of this
shitpile's keys on his way
out of town.