E.D.

Cold comfortable death
The weight
In these hands
Exquisitely ugly instrument
Of polished silver
Precise molding
Evil intention
And I understand
The attraction

The sex in violence
And rigid godhead

Icy steel turned
Blistering hot
A primer’s eye
Coughing sparks and
Scattering fate
Chance and promise
Like tarot cards
Tossed into tornadoes

It is a dance
With the devil
Inviting him to bed
While hoping
He’ll keep that finger
To himself