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Mona Reagan Smile: a bit of poetry to exorcise those demons

I want to share with you all a poem I've written based on my love of the horror genre and an experience I had when my mom and I vited a coun of mine whom I had never met and who was on his death bed. This is a bit on the contemporary poetry de, so no rhyme or meter, at least as far as free verse is concerned. Bidites, enjoy.Upon Trying to Get Images of a Possessed Linda Blair Out of My Head

The Devil’s got my hands, at least, and the rest of me goes to this guy I saw on his death bed, apparently my coun, though I’d never heard of him my whole life, and not that I really think he is in me, but as I’m floating mid-air, arms dangled to the de, I can’t help but wonder if this is what dying is like: being trapped sleeping in a body, not necessarily my own, looking up occaonally at passersby, those who want to see me before I take my last breath. I’ll never be as sweet and innocent as Linda Blair before the Devil got a hold of her. My body had cuts and bruises way before Delano

ever took vacancy within the Holiday Inn that is my body. And about my hands: I write on Sundays just to be sure, but I think Beelzebub’s still in them, but he’s the politician Milton had belching lies into the “soft delicious Air,” and calling all shitheads in Hell “Ethereal Virtues.”

I’m not necessarily frightened anymore by The Exorcist. If anything, I’m more afraid of the guilt this little twelve-year-old daughter of a movie star has, after having twisted the director’s head completely around,

and thrown his body out of her two story window. “You’re going to die up there,” she said. Too bad he didn’t get the memo.