Spawn of Satan


I sit uneasy

I stand tall

I pull and press the cold torment in my hand

My dirty jean apron is tied

My cloudy red bucket nearby

The music in the distance is the only soothing thing

With the gray clay

I fixate my mind on a small perfect vase

And for a moment in space

It exists

I glace over at my tools

At my damp pick and my filthy needle

My hands bone dry

I make three coils

They are stacked on the wheel

Oh Coils I hate the false joy you bring

It makes my heart sing

A lovely but misleading tune

Makes me look like a loon

So I work work work

Faster, concentrate

I combine you into one piece

Low and behold like rotting mold

On my toast


You infuriate me

I plot ways to clash swords with you and win

Yet outwards travels the clay

Like a Mayan Temple

You, coils torture like a bully

You get inside my mind

You mess with calm

And create the perfect storm for madness

Maybe I stabbed my hand with the chisel

But so many failures of the toll of the coil

The toil of making circles makes me

Dizzy and you collapse my senses

Like a bully

You always reemerge

More hurtful

I stack and combine three more

It is woman verses nature

Maria against the coil

I will spin you around and make you puke

But again I have to start again

With what strength I have left

I stand up

I sadly but angrily crumple and thrust

You into the bin

Evil coil

You make my blood boil

You make me bleed my own blood

I have nothing to show for all these hours

Except your victory

And some blood

I curse the day you were born

Circles represent forever,

Perpetually they go on

So Forever I wage battle

Guerrilla Warfare

My fist smack and the table rattle

Until I collapse

Or you melt

Spawn of Satan