on my shoulder
tells me what I should write…
He’s as bad as my 4th grade English teacher
“No. That’s not where I want the comma to go.”
And I do whatever he says,
or he won’t let me sleep.
George, is sophisticated.
He smokes Cuban cigars, that have been in storage for 50 years
He complains about our Word processor
He misses the old type face, of a typewriter
the last three humans he tormented
were writers too
He specializes in writers, or would-be writers
until their words are scrambled and as dead
as chickens that were never born.
But he’s having difficulty with me
the worse I write
the more I feel like
I can write whatever I want
the least published writer
is the freest writer
with no editors, to tell him what to do
with no homicidal fans, with nothing better to do
than bring a bomb to his house
(this happened to Stephen King, by the way)
Now my literary demon is playing video games
on my console, I haven’t touched, since I began to type, years ago
I promised him
a letter of recommendation
to say a few good words
to Satan, on his behalf.
I will fool the king of contracts
cheat the deceiver, at his own game
He twists language
like a liar
I’m a fiction writer.