I shouldn't have gone out walking, alone,
Tonight of all nights, I should have stayed away.
There is an abyss here, a perverted tear in the earth,
Trickling with the waters of Lethe,
Alive with the shades of the dead.
And here they are;
Dead things are coming, with their eyes like soured, milky rubies.
The smell of hunger is red,
And that is what I can smell,
Their starvation, their need,
They no longer breathe, or bleed,
But they can hunger, and they do,
And they smell me; something new,
A clean soul ripe for corruption.
Hungrily they come, tendons trailing, mouths agape,
Here is our vision; here is the shape
Of the dead world that will be.
They will take us, in our billions,
But tonight, they'll just take me.

I am writing these poems
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.
So please excuse the handwriting
Which may not be too clear.
But this afternoon by the lion's cage
I'm afraid I got too near.
And I'm writing these lines
From inside a lion,
And it's rather dark in here.

I propose every pre-existing value to myself, and I embody it.
I surge every thought towards it, I commit every diasporic cell to it.
I cradle, and I brood and dwell on it for years, until I can find no other reality to contest it.
I become narrow and hollow. I hiss at every attempt to eclipse my flaring sun of reality.
I become The Bitter Man. I will love nothing more than to project my bitterness unto others until I am alone; Manifest Destiny.
Until I fully epitomize the number 1, I will not relent.
I will churn myself into powder over thousands of miles of burnt asphalt and sips of coffee until I sit beneath chrysalis skies, in gravel ditches not inspired to even look up.
Sit up, sight & repeat.
I will continue on this wheel of values until every value is impotent
*And total freedom will ensue.

The midnight sky is just another
         Curtain covering the window;
Hiding whatever is behind it.
        My fear of the dark is killing me,
                  Claustrophobia slowly eating my soul
        Out of the scarce source of light.

           I’m       
              F
                      A
                                   L
                                            L
                 ­                                   I
                            ­                                N
                               ­                                      G

                                                      Into the sand pit of voices,
                                                               Telling me the earth is round,
                                                      But all I see is a square.
                                                               All of six different faces that
                                                                        Can’t look at each other because
                                                               They are all stuck on edge, sleeping.

                                    I stand in front of those curtains,
                                    The adrenaline to scream the earth awake
                                    Is rushing through my blood stream.
                                    A grip onto the cloth of
                                    The elements of the universe
                                    Tearing it piece by piece.

                                                               Wake up, Earth.
                                                               There’s another world
                                                               Outside that window.