Playing ‘Fall Down’ with the Devil’s Soldiers

The hate of my enemies is…
so insanely potent as to be
almost…

sensual

They are masochistic in their losing and, in a twist
of mocking seduction,

invite me to midnight revelries to ‘celebrate’
my wins: my victories over their false gospel

Inverting my power, by the shores of my
inner Balis: my Goas, Moroccos, and Mexicos,
they make a type of love to me—

serenading me with unclean joy;
massaging my tender bits;
wrapping my wrists with decorative bands;
plaiting my Nazarite hair—

as ‘punishment’ for my crimes against their clan

Then, like Oscar—Beverly’s lace-necked dove,
they try to pluck out my eyes,
dancing on my shoulder, kissing my cheeks,
and whispering flatteries that mask
a contrariwise malevolent intention

I fall for Oscar’s cute interlude every time;
naively expecting the ‘Reconciliation’ ritual to
end on a different note

And the smoke of this enemy-rolled
cigarette at the border

rises too high upon the morning air,
exposing my treachery