The Stylist

Grooming my Demons
Ruffling feathers, scabs, scales,and scutes
When I’m finished with them
They’ll be the apotheosis of their practice

In every house there is a cave you’d better not enter
I’m no Desert Father yet I roam a wilderness
If mistaken for a hermit
I would have you believe I was Saint

Looking for a better version of himself 
Searching for Paul of Thebes
St. Anthony has taken a chair
With silver white hair and long flowing beard

It won’t be long before Schongauer, Bosch and Dali appear
The Seven Deadly Sins are ready for their close-up
Stockholm Syndrome’s, their publicist
Falling in a world turned upside down
My meteoric rise get’s a mention

Grooming my Demons
Spitting, scratching, biting, vitriolic, hair ripping
Premiers of their province
And if I didn’t cultivate them
How could they make over others

from a series of poems:  “Tissue Of The Soul” © Charles Rea, 2018

correlating image ‘Grooming My Demons’ from series ‘First Thing In The Morning, Last Thing At Night‘