Protect us, Pazuzu – glaring in your wall of wings –
from number-demons who squat occluded in the air
and light about us, lunging like barracudas while we bath
or hunting in darkness as our fingers feel for a switch.
Butt with your antelope horn their scheming left-brains, slash
with your eagle talons the false smiles on false faces, gnaw
with your dog jaws on the marrow of their calculus, stab
with your scorpion tail the throats that belch forth lies.
They have turned harvest to dust because they go unchecked
about their business. I see you winched onto a European mall
facing a European palace. Your eye is baleful. Behold
the princes of industry and usurpers of it, oh son of Hanbi,
oh brother of Humbaba, and enter into their dreams
as you ride the sandstorm. Eat on their dreams for your meal.
Glare from your wall of wings, Pazuzu.