The devil slipped
from the lip
of her luscious lobe.
Screaming Banshee.
And we laughed,
shot back our whiskey
and mouthed the words.
I took it in hand,
dug its leather horns
into the palm of my waiting hand.
And she spoke a falsetto,
mimicking Jesus
in plea and plight.
We snickered,
ground our swaying hips
into the edge of the blackened stage.
Raising a shaky arm
I held the devil aloft.
You whispered, “no no”
and still I laughed,
coughed the dust
raised by dancing feet.
With a clean swipe it was gone
and in wonder
we watched
the stranger,
lightbulb flashing in his
gaping hole.
You wondered,
accidentally licking my ear
as you spoke,
“are we too high?
I can hear the light”
And I laughed once again.
But the concert was over,
and having lifted the devil,
do right, do right,
we were escorted
whiskey, baggy and all,
to the door at the end of the hall.
Backstage. Lying limber
in wait
for the fox with the devil
on her luscious liquid lobe.

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