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.
