The Drunk Novelist

Anything I had meant to the world,
Feels like it is lost forever.
I ponder,
Is my problem that I am too alive?
I wonder,
That all around me
Has gone ahead merrily
To its death, eternally unconsecrated,
Unfeeling.
Anything I did to speed my own
Precious demise
I did for need to not be alone
And breathing air
Cloyingly fresh from lack of contact
With human skin cells
Is too much to endure, even on the
Mountainside.

The spirit in the corpse glides through the earth
To and fro.
I want to succumb to its serpent teeth
I gave my neck to its famished tongue.
But it kissed my scar and told me
I was hungrier than it could withstand
Or understand;
And while it was a dead body
Who lapped up others' souls to survive,
I was a living body.
With no soul.