I began to think that burning one's fingers had nothing on one spitting ink,

and with this in mind, I found my palette lined with asbestos.

The lights turn blue with cigarette smoke and the fumes from petroleum lamps, cramps in my hands creasing the words that I write,
a slight irritation in my bowels which could be me or the emergence of too many unnecessary vowels.

I question the use of the juice from an artery
to lay down on this page a few lines of cheap poetry.