What Home? Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

One
hole
world
the reality
visiting this odd
globe; want to stomp
yet, in such ways, when
it was that I lived before
this was avoided, but ‘we'
speak, have a need to speak
want to believe and speak of
what people want; but this
is weak. Face the facts, say this
that all human tears are black, that
all human faces, are a cobalt blue, and
all human beings are through; make them
jump, through their owned self-made hoops
fold all, into any perception's coil, act like time
has no claws, and stand them under the ending
of time clause, and sign it! Then make each crouch
down and pray that they will not bray like a donkey
when that whip comes down upon their foreheads
locking tight their eyes, causing their ‘ayes', to
scream out for mercy! Oops, one has noticed
me twitching on the corner at lunch time
spotting the prey of my hunt, in this
moment caught in the crush of my
jaws, jugular vein ripped out by my lil'
paws; and I pause, and wait for this one
corpse to bleed out as overhead, where
the world spins yet; the sky is so bright
an eerie sight in the bark of fright; as the
rhythm steps up and towers over all as perfect
light, noticed since my birth; preying upon the
Earth, grinding the mystique into the fines
of such hysteria and these minions do not
know of the weakness at the center of the
universe; trained on the galaxy, as dew is to
water dripping and my skill, my true beauty
within me, is as a withering dram of whatever
slowly becoming one, with what was once home…