Carnival of Demons

Carnival of Demons

Deep inside the twisted machinery
of the darkest available thought,
a place where the demons run an open-air market,
selling what they’ve brought.

Voices like a hypodermic going straight into the vein,
wrecking every circuit I had carefully maintained for sane.

They put on quite the exhibition of crooked grins and practiced claws,
feeding on the hunger running underneath the surface gauze,
eyes that catch the light with processed malice, sharp and cold and bright.
These operators make their entire living off the mechanics of night.

Carnival of demons in the basement of my skull,
spinning their machinery until the available quiet goes null,
wicked and electric–all their colored fires and their friction,
carnival of demons and I’m deep inside the fiction.

Twisted mirrors showing me the worst of every documented chapter,
fun house made of memories of every ugly aftermath.
But I’m not their audience and I’m not their featured attraction.
I’m the one who sets the whole tent burning–that’s my transaction.

Burn it down. Burn the whole carnival to foundation and to ground.
Turn their wicked soundtrack into wreckage and into no sound.
Done being the freak exhibit in their rigged and crooked show,
burning down the carnival and walking the hell out of its glow.