Angels with Filthy Faces

At first there was nothing, and then:
In an instant one conversation and one cacophony
Of chaos and calling to disorder with broken voice,
Hair flying in the slipstream of my frenzied
Unspeaking retreat from where I am held in
The vice of necessity and truth to myself.
Exhausted, I run screaming from pole to pole
Pursued by my own inner demons,
Angels with filthy faces shouting as they run
That I must be good and true, be good
And true and at one pole stands you
At the other pole stands you my saviour and
My nemesis with no order, no ceasing, no sense.
I can run away with myself but they follow
In my footsteps: all I can hear is their breath at my back
As they instil in me the knowledge that I
Must be true, be true, not faithful as oh
I have been to you, but faithful to myself
Myself who ultimately I owe everything to
And that is why under the filth
They are angels.