The Stomach Is Gone by Frank Reardon

There is not a stomach left
when you feel the city that
is letting you starve. Love
seems like a series of beer
cans and the passion is the
ash from a cigarette on its
brim, lonely and left for the
trash. I've grown to be the
disappointed one and I've
noticed that pain is more than
a set of dizzy spells. It's the
command center to the lunatic
it's the dead hookers mascara
smudging on the body bag.
The fighters stamina grows weak
he grows far more confused
about how and when, he tries
to stand but falls to the canvas,
breathing heavy with nothing
left but hunger, rage and anguish.
I've got this cloud its full name
is The Depraved Beast, He mocks
me and tests me, he says he's
trying to make me a man, lately
I've been hiding in the bushes
with a knife, reality is too fucking
much.