Painting By Author

One of the perks
of being dead
is not having to fight
biology.
No more beard
or waste,
just rot.

Death
has released me.
My hunger is not
a matter of stomach,
but is instead
a cellular scream;
deflating,
a sagging sensation.

I don’t think much,
no specific memories.
Vestigial knowledge
of how things work;
rusty cogs of cogency
gearing down.

Don’t talk much,
even though I have a lot to say.
I build scaffolds of words
to bring my thoughts
to cathedral ceiling heights,
but when I open my mouth,
out comes ungodly rot.

Is it part of the
mechanics of being dead,
or do we just have nothing to say
that should be heard
by the quick?

Eating people sucks.

I try self restraint,
I swear I do,
but I just cannot help
but go for the sweet stuff-
the sizzle-pop life buzz
of the brains.
My own head clears,
lights up,
feels less dead.

I steal what they have
to replace what I lack.

Hunger is the real monster.

Being dead is not so bad,
I’ve learned to live with it.

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