Prose Fragment Poem by Anita Wisniewska

It hangs, spinning on it s cord at the centre of the ceiling. Like a large globe lampshade, huge and multifaceted with hard, shiny, flat interlocking sections that glitter wickedly.

Inside, who knows what s inside, maybe layer upon layer of printed circuit boards
humming quietly with frenetic, evil activity. Within it are enacted horrific scenes of
rape, murder, incest, the unjustifiable execution of life in all its forms, all the screaming voices of hell reverberating through the limitless black recesses of a universe^ pain without end.
In the corner, huddles the Devil, gibbering quietly to himself. He has a dark, twisted face, hunchback and twisted ears.

Outside the window pane, floating in the vast blue sky that hangs over the city, I can see the very faint outline of an angel, or is just the shadow of the departing moon, or maybe the vapour trail of a plane.?

'And what do you do? ' asks the heavily made up woman standing in front of me. I reply evasively She looks puzzled, then turns away to talk to somebody else,