Of Demons and Quasars

Living with demons in the wet steel cage,
sitting on the high plain with winds running wild,
tumbling over and under the mid-summer stars,
the semi-rust is getting to me.
Creeping under my fingernails when I claw at them.
My co-habitants are a hungry, angry lot,
blood fiends and animals of the deep,
blind pythons, and semi-sentient angler fish.
The scraping of their talons, the grinding of their teeth, their stares through me,
I hear cries of a battlefield far apart,
I start to relish the violence of my waking hours during my dreams,
I start to hurry over sunlight and cavort under the moon.
Polish sausages.
The frenzy of my reluctant company has seeped into my skin.
Smelling softly of fur and sea-salt,
I lose the keys to my attic.