It shows up grinding in an instant, in a century.
Instinct and desire.
A hunger.
It’s not in the gut.
Lower than that.
It doesn’t have a name.
It lives in the blood and the cells
of every human being.
A kind of rumbling noise in the chest,
like a record left playing in a basement—
John Coltrane, or Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue,
faintly echoing through the halls of the mind.
This thing, this longing,
won’t be satisfied by food, savory or sweet.
It needs grit—
something to come back
and mean it this time.
Even the body knows
it runs toward things
that vanish on the horizon,
that don’t want to be caught.
You start confusing appetite with memory,
and the lines get blurred,
and the mind fucks itself,
and the soul feeds on scraps of trash,
trying to satisfy that twisting knot.
The brain replays
the bedroom scene of ecstasy—
2 a.m., sweat-soaked,
half lost in it, half gone already,
only to wake up
broken, busted, confused.
And at some point,
you stop calling it hunger.
You just settle in—
like a mouse with crumbs on its face—
to the rotten slice of life.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: May 24th, 2026 07:24
- Comment from author about the poem: Just uploaded a new long-form poetry reading on YouTube. Featuring work from Aluminum Cowboys and a preview from my upcoming book Searching for Nod (coming November). New reading, new selections, same simple at-home format. Watch here: https://youtu.be/kxOye9wk3Xg Books on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Thomas-W.-Case/author/B0CL2RKDGX?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=xsU45&content Appreciate you being here.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments4
A write of memory, focus and satiation on what is nothing more than garbage. Well written Thomas
Thanks, I appreciate it.
My pleasure Thomas
My friend, this captures something many people feel but rarely articulate honestly…the way longing can stop being about pleasure entirely and become entangled with memory, loneliness, repetition, identity, even self-destruction. The poem understands how desire can hollow itself out over time until all that remains is habit and ache. Bleak, but deeply human work. Well written. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thank you.
Gritty truths in unapologetic verse.
Thank you.
Welcome.
Ragged & real .. just the way I like em .. Neville
Thank you, my friend.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.