humanimalien — black left hand

take a quiet walk to the edge of glass, go beneath the wires, where the chimneys lean, like tired machines that still breathe fire. where secrets hum in the copper veins, and the air forgets your name. hey friend, you know, you’ll never find your way back again. past the bridge, past the field, past the glow and the ash, through a gathering smoke walks a tall pale man in a coat of frost with a black left hand.

he will wrap you in his coat, tell you that you’ve been a good ghost. he’ll return the little hopes that your body decomposed. he will open every nerve, wake your sleeping word. hey, child, you know, you’ll never wake the same again. he’s a code, he’s a king, he’s a wound, he’s a wing, they whisper his name through the static and the sand — the man with the black left hand.

you ain’t got no voice? he’ll give you one. you ain’t got no face? he’ll make you some. you ain’t got no dream, you feel unclean — well don’t you worry, son, here he comes. through the basements and the towers, through the stations and the slums, a shadow expands wherever he stands, with the hum of wires in his black left hand.

you’ll meet him in reflection, you’ll see him in your sleep. he’ll appear inside your shadow when your light begins to weep. he’ll speak from every mirror, from every frozen screen, and hey, my friend, i’m warning you — turn off that dream. he’s a god, he’s a glitch, he’s a beast, he’s a man, you’re a pixel in his fevered plan, designed and devoured by his black left hand.