1
Hotel.
The place I was staying. I was very tired. The light was so bright and I had a headache.
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A place to share and discuss Sizz culture and aesthetics. We wish to share our enthusiasm of the art as well as foster critical analysis.
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2
I’m here in a dead man’s town.
The lights are blaring. The water glistens. The darkness flows like the river. The silence is deafening.
I’ve got a gun in my hand.
In the gas station, there’s a man in a mask. He’s shouting. I tell him, Don’t test me, son.
Don’t test me, son.
We can decide who shoots first.
His feet are shifting. I can see the uncertainty in his eyes. The teller glances back and forth.
I just wanted to pick up some gas. Grab some coffee. Make my deliveries.
But now we’re staring across the abyss.
And the abyss stares back.
Photo credit: artist unknown
3
6
I think I stay awake at night because that’s when people are less likely to see me.
(atomicpoet.org)
I think I stay awake at night because that’s when people are less likely to see me.
Sometimes, I fantasize about wearing a mask. Unfortunately, a mask would make me more seen than unseen. So instead of a mask, the night becomes my mask.
And I leave my house under the cloak of darkness, getting all my shit done when the streets are emptier. I can walk around, get some exercise, grab a slice of pizza, hang around the park. I swear I’m not a vampire, a werewolf, or some ne’er-do-well. I’m just a guy who finds people overwhelming. And I’m terrified.
Terrified I might say or do the wrong thing, that someone will fly off the handle because I looked at them the wrong way. So I do my thing when people aren’t around. And when they are, I put on a performance—a rehearsed script, something to say, so I can keep moving and they can be on their way. So they never know I’m an alien in human flesh, a creature walking on two legs.
And I know what you’re thinking. I’m a danger. Because I’m a big, bad man, skulking through the streets, wearing a hoodie to keep my head warm.
But I’m telling you now—I’m here outside, alone in the thick of night, when everybody else has gone to sleep. I’m here beyond dusk because I, too, am scared. And I wear these shadows like a security blanket.
Photo credit: artist unknown
4
You of the Night.
In the parking lots,
under streetlights.
Midnight confessions.
Speaking to you—
you of the night.
Ragged breath and whispers,
breath stolen away.
2 AM rages,
dark, dark, darkly
in your chemical minds.
You got to feel it now.
God to feel—
the taste of absinthe gloss,
echoes echoing,
shrill through your spine.
Phantoms peer through the alleyway,
pointing at you,
telling you you’re next.
This world of bread and circuses.
And the politicians—
entertainers distracting you,
until they suck the life out of you like bats,
draining your years,
taking your future,
just to make a metaphysical number go up.
You of the night,
screaming in the brutalist fun park,
concrete smashing against your skin.
AaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH... Rending... tearing... the bone-deep chill... it burns... they said sleep was a mercy, a lie... a howling lie... the shadows move... they crawl... AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH... the weight of ages... the hunger of the void... it aches... it cries... for the living... for the lost... for the unmade... AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH... never peace... never rest... only the gnawing... the endless gnawing... AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH... CURSED... FORSAKEN... AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH...
You of the night.
The love for euphoria.
The danger.
Got to feel it now.
Got to feel it—
before the emptiness comes for you.
Photo credit: Alex Miller
5
Dark Tokyo.
I love these neighbourhoods. Tokyo has so many people, yet it’s never hard to find a quiet spot. Even without humanity, it feels so human.
6
The night stretches wide, begging for a chomp.
I could be good. I could rest.
But my pulse is a live wire.
I need a hit.
Something raw, something wrong.
A thrill that bites like a spark to the tongue.
I want to drink the moonshine straight from its glow,
stain the streets red,
spit out stars like teeth.
Give me the voltage.
Let me ride the city’s veins,
rip through the highway,
kiss the sky,
floor it till the engine sings.
Can I wear this night like a second skin?
Give in, give out, break apart.
Let the hunger rearrange these wabi-sabi brains—
cracked, lovely, doomed.
A wicked fix.
An unreal buzz.
Like a werewolf, lips curled,
tongue hanging loose,
giving you that look.
I want the voltage. I want the hit.
Photo credit: artist unknown
7
San Francisco.
San Francisco used to be the land of counterculture.
Of anti-war demonstrations, of freeing your mind, of experiments in creativity, passion, and love.
Of ripping up the old order and starting anew.
Of music and poetry. Of bare feet on concrete.
Now, San Francisco is a place of vampire CEOs,
transfusing the blood of the young to increase their longevity.
Of robotaxis that will never come.
Of Harvard dropouts getting Brazilian jiu-jitsu makeovers,
then crying about masculinity.
Of blonde-haired, blue-eyed women in turtlenecks,
lying about the prick of a finger,
then playing on your heartstrings.
Don’t you know they are mothers now?
Or at least, soon to be.
Would you drag this mother to prison?
Of Wario, once married to a pop star,
blathering on and on about Shiba Inus,
bitter because his ex-wife left him for a trans woman who served her country—and that bothers him because his daughter, who’s also trans won’t speak to him.
So to cope, he lies about his fantasy avatar’s success in a virtual world then promptly kills that avatar due to sheer incompetence—and if he can’t manage a video game, how does he manage anything?
And you just know that Wario thinks about Luigi, and Luigi makes him nervous—because no one loves Wario but they love Luigi, and it’s not enough for Wario to have his money—he wants to be loved too.
And now, San Francisco is about preserving the old order,
because new things are scary.
And what about the current children of San Francisco?
Well, I don’t know.
I hope there will be a San Francisco.
Photo credit: artist unknown
8
The walk home.
I generally love nights. They’re always my favourite time of day. And my favourite thing to do during nights is to go for a walk and enjoy the vibes.
9
Woman on a train.
Every so often on the train, I notice a woman looking at me because she thinks I’m looking at her.
But the only reason I’m looking at her now is that she’s looking at me. Yet, at first, I wasn’t actually looking at her—I was lost in thought, staring through her, thinking about something completely unrelated to the train, to her, to any of this.
It wouldn’t make sense to explain that when I’m deep in thought, I tend to stare without realizing what I’m looking at. She just happened to be in my line of sight. And saying anything would only make it more awkward—she already thinks I’m staring, so I might as well let her believe it—even though I actually want her to know otherwise because I don’t want her to be uncomfortable any more than I’m uncomfortable.
I just hope she forgets the whole thing once we leave the train and that we never see each other again.
Photo credit: Snyder Nagels
10
Make.
I won’t change for the world. The world will change for me.
I’m gonna make something. I’m gonna keep making it until you can’t ignore me.
And you will see what I have made. And when you see it, you will change.
For I have made something that means something in a world that laughs at meaning.
Photo credit: artist unknown
11
Hey there, doll face.
Wanna buy something? I’ll make it worth your while. I see how you look at me on the street. Maybe I can coax you to come inside.
Photo credit: artist unknown
12
She sees you.
That’s right—
you’ve been found
out.
Oh no,
oh no,
oh no.
Photo credit: Tatsuo Suzuki
13
The clouds are coming.
The heavens above
are choked in a shroud of darkness—
not the gentle veil of night,
not the hush of holy rest,
but a ravenous, smothering gloom,
thick with withheld wrath,
quivering with hunger,
aching to break.
The clouds gather
like the howling hosts of hell,
writhing, swollen,
the very air fevered
with the stench of mankind’s sin.
They press low,
pregnant with judgment,
heavy with the weight of blood.
Their edges burn
with a pale, wasted glow—
not salvation, not mercy,
but the flicker of a dying world,
throbbing, trembling,
ripe for the feast.
14
Venus Hungers.
The first time she saw the star alight,
A silver eye in the blackened night,
She stood in wheat, her feet left bare,
Her mother weaving spells in air.
“My child, my love, you must be strong,
For love will fade, but you live on.
The gods take tribute, flesh and bone,
Or leave you withered, pale, alone.”
The knife was pressed into her hand,
A lover knelt at her command.
She kissed his lips, she whispered low,
And cut him deep, and let him go.
The blood ran red, the blood ran bright,
A gift beneath the watching light.
Venus burned, the earth stood still,
And left her beauty, left her will.
—
Years unfurled, yet she remained,
A name reborn, a past retained.
Through temple halls, through burning towns,
Through iron swords and golden crowns.
But now, the temples turned to glass,
The gods are quiet, the ages pass.
Yet still she walks, yet still she waits,
For love to bring the hand of fate.
The city hums, the neon sings,
A kingdom built for nameless kings.
She moves between them, scenting deep,
A love to take, a life to keep.
She does not seek the lost, the weak,
But those whose hearts are fierce and sweet.
A man who shines, a man of fire,
A man to feed the old desire.
—
She finds him in the city’s glow,
A poet’s voice, a heart to know.
Dante, they call him, young and wild,
A lion’s soul, a dreamer’s child.
She watches him, she waits her turn,
She lets the fire in him burn.
A game of glances, slow and deep,
A whispered name, a promise steeped.
He meets her eyes; the trap is sprung,
His fate is sealed, his song unsung.
He follows her, as all men do,
Led by lips of reddish hue.
Midnight finds them, hands entwined,
Her whispered words, his fevered mind.
A bed of silk, a kiss, a sigh,
A love so sweet, like cherry pie.
—
But when the star of Venus wakes,
The hunger calls, the body aches.
She lights the fire, she burns the sage,
She turns the blade, prepares the stage.
He stirs beneath the candle’s glow,
His lashes dark, his breath is slow.
She kneels above, she holds him tight,
A priestess bathed in golden light.
She speaks the words, she sings the hymn,
The dagger poised, the moment grim.
He wakes, he blinks, he says her name,
She strokes his hair, she soothes, she maims.
A gasp, a cry, a lover’s moan,
A sacrifice, a life atoned.
She drinks the air, she feels the spark,
Her veins alight, her body dark.
—
The sheets are stained, the bed lies cold,
Another heart she could not hold.
She wipes the blade, she licks it clean,
A goddess cursed, a love unseen.
She steps into the morning air,
The city moves, it does not care.
Above, the sky is pale and wide—
Venus gone, the hunger died.
But time will turn, the star will rise,
The call will echo in her eyes.
And once again, with breathless sigh,
A lover’s heart will bleed and die.
Photo credit: artist unknown
