Sometimes, this world smells rancid,
A grey sludge of animal waste.
Corporate sweat and mankind’s stain,
Rotting a dream inside my head.
Paint it black, paint it green, paint it out,
Cover up the truth until it’s too late.
There’s no escape, no hope;
Bite my tongue on any words of truth.
The monsters fly and the black dogs bark,
By steps that pass a maggot peppered heart.
Down to the basement where the dead dreams lie.
—paul birkeland-green 2015