a poem by Roger B Rueda
The imp is sensitive about itself –
be it like anything else:
never be a looking glass or
an echo of what it is like,
for the imp is miffed.
Gaga!
It might shriek
in wrath.
Its minions love the imp
a whole heap until their undoing,
their souls won’t be scorched –
they are covered in dosh,
of rites perceived by the Lord
of the Flies,
the god the imp keeps on
repudiating, yet its heart
belongs to him.
The god of its paradox.
The god that blesses it.
The god that smiles at what
it does.
Let the imp read the Bible.
Let it sing all the praises
for the Christ.
Let it cry without remorse.
Let it be.
The imp knows
what it is doing.
The imp knows where
it is going.
The imp is a pitiful piece
fantasising
to be a UFO, in the clear
and beatific.
Let God cast it into its sett, the hellhole.
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