Its 3am and nothing else.
To write a good verse, I need a heart.
Just one.

There, a showcase. Hearts of all types.
You connoisseur of broken. You say,
Here are the ones that gush the most blood.
Owners of poetry, verses that quiver.
these are raw, raw, raw.

Ah, yes, you moan and lick your fingers.

I shiver.
Some veins are just thicker.
Come, you say, *I see those hearts won't fit you,
Try these ones on discount.
Plastic copies on a platter
for people to pick 'em.

Knees on the ground, he said:
"The calling of the abyss,
the beckons from the smoke,
the waters down below,
I'm falling with ease."

But I came from his rib.
I bow, –submissive–
In quiescence I can't preach.

Yet my veil grows.

Take my hand.
Anointed or not;
Man,
I am your glory.

Whoever is empty
is hungry.

And all one can think about is food.

When a stranger offers
a loaf,

you think he is doing you a favor.

But no human deserves
to be starved at all.

Your words collect themselves.
Smoke of blank ink–
The blots form hands and feet.

Hello, Leviathan.

Dearest,
Drag me to ceramic land.

Sink your fangs on my knees.
Claw; curl my shoulders.
Scratch, raise my sleeves.
Force my hand to my face.

Leviathan, Leviathan,
you've failed.

You've prepared me for prayer.

A pickle’s tip is not enough for you.
Its going all in.
Taste is a side dish, too.

Savor the mooned lemons,
the skin’s sahara’s,
or the two parallel
ulurus.

Don’t forget your sin.

You take food off the table–
from your neighbours, too.
Your hunger could ****.

Take your worn-out maps–
old lessons of geography–
skim your finger
in between the iced caps.

Kiss the foreign,
the countries that don’t belong
to you.

Take it all, avariced ****.

***, to you,
is a selfish meal.