on the devil's pirate radio station

he talks about silver. bullet. tea sets.
a house catches fire & the sound eats a hole
through my satellite. i am trying to decorate
my bedroom with empty picture frames.
the devil & i have so much in common. i want
to sit on the tongue of his voice all night.
the devil doesn't believe in god. the devil eats
crunchy potato chips & listens to string quartets.
his confessional is full of broken bottles.
he speaks into the night as if he might own it.
i too am prone to over-consumption. there he is knocking 
or else i am just eating the door again.

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