even though my paternal devil is dead,

I still often find myself performing

the childhood rituals:

     unaware held breath

     unconscious clenched fists

     reflexive guilt for things desired

all stemming from when my Old Scratch

was still running after “some snatch,”

admiring himself in the mirror with

his randy flesh doused in Old Spice.

“Gotta getcha some,” was the chant,

as that bad boy from The Boot

walked out the door to conquer,

and give thanks at the altar of sin.

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