i’m such a terrible artist,
i hardly use my imagination,
i figured: we’re already pulverised by
too much advertisement
and copyrighting words
as if they were images.
i’m such a terrible artist because of this,
i write from experience,
and because my experiences would be
taken for mundane by the millionth sheep in the snooze
i write disorderly purposively,
and in the night, i roam the house admiring
the moon changing everything into werewolf diet krypton (i.e. Ag),
talking to god by talking to my hand,
warming my fear of shadows laughing at my own with kant,
boxing my liver then thinking about my bladder.
those socks worn for two days straight really
gave my bedroom a proper scenting i wish i was without.