A Chorus Of The Good Value Ghosts

I rented a brain today.
The devil resides in a corner of it.
I look at my own reflection,
I see an insurance salesperson
glaring back at me
dreaming of the father figure
which haunted it.
The devil awakes.
White horned, eyes black as tar,
venom dripping from its tongue
and tail the shape of a spearhead.
Dancing, with a pitchfork
poking at the brainless dead.
I am tossing clueless and conscious in bed.

It was all the same in these city streets,
thin air, the smoked up lungs and the serenade.
The sun behind the fractured clouds
like thunder had struck an X-ray.
My eyes bloomed.
I am no longer your kinda I.
My shoes I have tied together
hanging from the bolt of her cupboard.

She's left a damp spot next to me.
She must have slept by mistake.
Insomnia used to eat her from the inside.
Her balcony is empty too.
You see that fire there?
Those noises are the screams of monks burning
alive, of world war one and Marilyn Monroe.
Passing through clouds of smoke
entering the topsy turvy entourage.
He reached for me and held up his dog tag,
a message I could not decode.
I've failed you.
But your blue ukulele
I want to keep with me.
I am on a journey with friends.

We became a bit crazier
one after another.
Replicated in the face of death,
deceived by interpretation.

One note sharp of the root
is where the chorus sang.
But the temple of the god is sinking, drowning
in its own apocalypse.
No future can save my religion.
Who has failed who?
Who was I before I met you?
Your you or mine?