Hunger too redundant for horror.
Each night to feed wrapped in repugnancy.
Hidden, alone, hunting streets of death.
No hope, nothing legitimate.
Days escaped in self-made darkness
without relief of dreams, blocking memories,
Creature of these streets, cold, abandoned,
preternaturally cruel, air of sulphur, tar,
pain of rot sans remorse or resolution,
unnatural world without end or warmth.
Even when blood runs hot into aching jaws,
no warmth penetrates.
Nights go nowhere.
More filth, horror
too familiar to offend
solitary hunters crowding all the secret places.
There is no exit here
No sweet release of sleep, no prayer to soft salvation.
There is only dead degradation of soul.
Not possibility, no properties of love or fond relation.
Trial of existence with no useful expression, no expiration.
Yet in this ceaseless horror, in this carnal Hell,
in this my filthy home, cold, without mercy,
in this cage of unrelenting dark,
a spark, a circle of red and black calls to enter.
Here, where awareness centers, threads of rotten vein
play at art, at shocking beauty.