Quiet Master
Like the cellulose encased chunks of Einstein’s brain
They want my prose in rows, my poetry about a gust through the trees
My poetry doesn’t give a singular phonetical fuck about your doctor of philosophy
There is no healing for those who wound themselves
‘Art School Drop Out Aficionado’ and a roach clip on my desk
Taxes require income, poets only know the inevitability of death
I’m digging a mine shaft with my fingernails and a fountain pen
The artists’ creed, I blink therefore I am
For what is thought without vision?
I am your favorite writer’s favorite writer to plagiarize
At school, they told me to explain more but when I did, they understood less
I don’t interfere with my peers when they sell their souls to paperback presses
When they give eighty hours a week to a job they hate to pay for their chic Soho loft
So they can ‘be on the scene’
When we speak two years later they say they haven’t written in a couple of years
Horror Sleaze Trash 