I eat books.

I want what’s inside of them.

Food? Only if it can feed me.

My personal library

inside me.

The beast is not impressed

with flashy things

gold rings

or girls in G-strings.

The Monster wakes, in the dark

and rises before the sun.

He worships…

making himself weak

for several weeks

to subdue

his power.

Now, it’s time, to arise

to be literary, and dance in the morning light

to piss-off feminists

to write, what nobody else

would dare say.



He eats words

and not approval.

He is cold blooded, thinking of the perfect line

He doesn’t care how long it takes

He does sit-ups

at 3 AM

He has something to say

He fuels his ego with fire

He sharpens his teeth on

blunt words

that cut to the marrow of the bone.

Maybe, this will be

his last party

where he sets fire

to the town.


can never eat enough

They die from their hunger

Movies are bad

Taste, is gone

Art, is artificial

The beast

eats its tale

until, his story is done

until, he is mythologized

in the cave

of dreams

scratched, on the walls

in his yellow handwriting

with fungus nails.


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