Demons' Dinner Poem by R.B. Gyle

Demons roaming like coyotes in the canyon
between my temples where they exercise
their religion and sculpt their idols with tools.
They are gold givers, & liars and their gold
turns out its pyrite.
But they reside there in that great crevasse
and howl and yelp and bite our
chicken by the neck.
Trails of blood trace their escape and takes
to where the chicken's heart finally stops
and the beast's belly fills like red wine
in a cup.
I am about to get a drink and get drunk.
The blood feels warm in the mouth.
My tongue swims in this red sea.
I am drowning my cranium where coyotes'
corpses bloat and decompose
alive. I am
blind behind the lids dropping over my eyes
and lose myself after prey, like a fiend
after what it fiends for and find my poem
echo.
But I am so far and I'm suffering loosing
my chicken and run after revenge
from the coup to the cave along a dark side
of the canyon where I find myself
with a mouthful of feathers, licking the blood
off my hands, saying through fangs:
'Welcome to your Demon's Dinner.