by
Sandy DeLuca
by
Sandy DeLuca
where photographs of street whores
and needle-scarred junkies hang on
piss-stained walls
The bones dangle
like magic chimes above the stove
and their song sheets are buried
in a crypt on the roof
He hands out flyers on Prince Street
promising to bring back dead lovers
for a bag of weed
a lost child for a small white pill
The seances are facades
he conjures demons with
words he learned from a street poet
who reads Tarot by the river
Beelzebub drinks malt liquor
chuckling merrily as guests scream
and he dances with crazed banshees
as he collects their souls within his glass
