I go out hungry.
Vestiges of ancient meat hang in the branches,
swing from the flag poles, pour like
rain out of windows in rooms
where murder is born. The men there,
a squat, tailored homunculus
surrounded by chanting politicians,
feed on the navels of outland children
forced to machines in Shanghai and Jakarta.
They grow terrible amusements of
death mask zealots that lock me in at the trough.
I go out hungry and mean for the
world's lean spoils and eat till my tongue corrodes.
This is my birthright.
These are my reptile eyes.
Poem by Jake Berry 11.1.04
“But you ought to know that What is Grand is necessarily obscure to Weak men. That which can be made Explicit to the Idiot is not worth my care.”
--William Blake (from a letter to Dr. Trusler, a clergyman for whom he had made a drawing, 8/23/1799).
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