The Hungry Poems

(Found in the wreckage of the Author's utterly destroyed house. A small black leather notebook. There are missing pages

 I have no love, I have no art. There is no fire in my heart. There is no bread; there is no meat.

There is no spark; there is no heat. Not one, from two, to come apart. There is no fire in my heart. I see it now. It is not fair.

The world can burn for all I care. I will not sing; I cannot dance. There is no path. I have no chance. I stand alone. I’m not so smart. There is no fire in my heart.

Call the winds and scour me.

Call the waters and drown me. Call the fire and burn me. Call the earth and cover me. Call the void and claim me. Forever and ever, amen.

 I lie .Broken and torn

On the cold, slick, black rocks of desire.

So close.

I fell. I should have jumped

Into the sea of love.

Jesus, Rodney.

Who the fuck are you kidding?

No one gives a shit about poetry, especially not the florid purple shit you write.

Might as well dig ditches or put up drywall.

You can open your veins and let your blood run out, but why can't you open something else and let your pain run out.

Why do I get the feeling that all I'm doing is scraping out a hole in the world. A hole in the world, I'm just going to pour my spirit into. Fuck. 

4 candles, (black) nail polish, (black) get some tangerines, ketchup,

love, affection, romance, ramen, lithium prescription, brass bowl.

It's been a whole month since she called me last.

Something is growing inside of me that is black and festering. I'm not surprised, I suppose, except by its violence.

I woke last night dreaming of fucking her and killing her at the same time. My hands around her throat. My power over her complete...I woke up afraid...ashamed.

I had enjoyed it. 

I am afraid now that if I see her again that this tide of ugliness will rise up in me again and destroy us both.

So. In a way, it's good that she hasn't called. And I don't think she will. 

 I saw the silver eyes. They saw me too.

I spoke to it. It spoke in my mind. It said it could feel my hungers from a long way off.

It asked me if I wanted turn my hunger into power . I said yes.

 These will be the last words I write. I found the missing piece of me. It was within all this time. I simply couldn't face it. Now I've been shown what I can do. My soul is sharp like a scalpel in a learned hand.

Epiphanies are a mixed blessing. And now that this sad little play is over, I'll step off the stage. 

Complete.