Seven seven one eight,
The demon's eyes lie closed in wait.
Etched in its fangs you read your fate
In seven, seven, one and eight.

Its chest hairs slither, wet and alive
Like tiny maggots drowned in slime.
Its fingernails, all bitter cracked - a desert beat upon by time.

Between his toes, free flows his pus;
It mixes with your spit and cries.
His tail, caked in shit and crud, is slithering up and down your thighs.

Seven seven one eight,
The devil's hands know naught but hate.
His cock knows nothing but your rape.
In seven, seven, one and eight.

Out of its knees, two mouths protrude,
With tongues as forked as growing lies.
It uses these to taste your face while on your corpse it sits astride.

He shifts and turns, you see his ears
From which it amplifies your screams
And sends them back to you reverbed, to echo, echo in your dreams.

Seven seven one eight,
These numbers form a mystic date.
A time from which you won't escape.
Not seven, seven one and eight.

P.S. - 7718 DOES stand for something. A free trip to the Mental Snot factory to the first person who correctly guesses what it means. (No, not really. But guess anyway).

Responses to the poem:

Michael Garrett: What year were you born, or hatched, or cloned, Michael?

Me: None of the above. Try, "created by divine decree of all that is holy and superior" and you'll be closer to the mark.

Michael Garrett: How about... purged from the belly of the beast.. induced by the middle finger of fate .. puked up upon the land ..realized as a pestilence so vile that even the once mighty thunder lizards succumbed ... on a day so dark a blind man could not find a black cat in a windowless room.. more?? .. the blasphemous demons prayed the rosary for relief from the stench.. as the devil's anus delivered unto us that which would burn our eyes, shred our ear drums, and sting our skin in an endless assault of our senses and sensitivities.

© 2000, Michael Yanovich. www.mentalsnot.com