Fuhrerbunker

Mack Hall, HSG

Fuhrerbunker

Do not descend into that withering world
Of pale self-pity dying in the depths,
A ghost hugging resentments to itself
And long-decayed hatreds treasured and fed
Upon the corpse of your frail, failing flesh
Hopelessly trapped in souring concrete cells
The empire you carefully constructed
Constricts, constrains, contracts, conforms, condemns

You cry to yourself that you cannot win
And that is true. You are without hope, doomed,
Waiting, lurking in a hugging wallow of
Stagnating fulfillment of the god-Self
Sitting on a floor fetid with refuse
Foul failures feeding on your inwardness
The feeble fluorescent lamps flickering
Shed shadows, never light, and never Light.

You cry to yourself that you cannot win
And that is true. You cannot win. Not you.
Not with the fantasy maps you drew, or
Upon the dead telephones whereon you
Communicated your nothingness to…
Nothing.
Open your hands. Open your eyes.
Don’t go down there. It’s dark down there. Don’t go.