The Birth of the Devil (I)

possibly one in a series of poems written from the perspective of the Christian devil

Out of nothing I create me.
Voice without persona,

dandy words and rhyme nonsense/
sense and non-words rhyme dandy.

I am Leech, of Time and Space Begone,
without skin, or blood, or bones:
a whispering wind that sounds like a voice
when you're going to bed,
a blinking window in a gridlocked synapse,
speaking an image of the dead.

See my horns, my pervert's grin,
a row of syphilitic teeth;
you think you've seen my true form, then.
But I have no form, the horns and teeth and grin
were purely for your benefit,
a puppet on a cardboard stage.

The music of the universe is harmony and grace.
I take those notes and play them inexpertly,
wrong, the melody askew, the tempo sheer nonsense.