Raw Devil

Raw Devil’s got a soul that’s made of metal that he stole from a scrapyard in New Jersey that he took to match the tolls he had to pay to make it up there. Every night he swears that tomorrow will be different – so far not the case. He bitches when he’s happy and then rusts when it rains – and you should see his cover peeling, hear his unoiled joints squealing in the evening when he’s lonely and knows it’s probably snowing on a village in New Brunswick and sometimes when his thoughts stick to each other like flies trapped on a perfectly placed flystrip in the kitchen, his precision for choosing good words fails. The details of his maker – like the factory he came from, are mysterious at best. The numbers on his chest were filed off after a crime that they never found him for. Raw Devil knocks his empty frame and knows there must be more ways of feeling like he won’t blow away in the next storm when the wind picks up.


~ by perfectionatrix on November 10, 2012.

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