Kafka in my head

I deprive myself of sleep

scramble my neurons

to dream of the magic blue

it pervades my nightmares

my walkabouts in the concrete escape

are never quite alone

there is a shadow, my own

lurking behind, a mass of tormented

ghostlings, the kind you see in war

and films about dying men

untouched by joy, and sentiment,

they are breathing on my neck,

they are goosebumps on my back,

surgically implanted, into my soul,

I hear the monsters, invisible surreal,

they are screaming my name,

crawling over me, in my veins,

a blackened grapevine, eviscerating

all hope, all despair; once a man,

now a devilish hue, in grey, in black,

I am old, i am dead, but for an outgrowth,

on the extremities of my visage.

Night is at an end, but the dark persists,

there is rest to be had, but only

after a rampage of fate.

I am old, and I am dead

I have Kafka in my head.