-Mangled and the Demon-

Mangled liked to spin the chickens,
liked how they danced headless
in the dirt, unable to cluck, flapping
their wings in the tin shack. He ate
lunch outside chicken house, white
plumes stuck in his taco hat, eating
boiled eggs and wild onions. He smelt
like livers, like chicken head, his skin
dark as a plum. And as he roamed
the pasture, he saw the Demon
on cinder-blocks, windows busted
out, the hood propped up, dirt dobber
nest in the muffler. Mangled thought
of tanks, of spark plugs and pistons,
of demolition, and the crunch of steel.