You're in love with a rotting Ginsberg
The desert's tanks are overturned
and your motifs are stale

Fooled into the belief that anyone cares
That clumsy wordplay is acceptable
or that your name carries weight

It's the same piece, week after week
With drugs in your system
and stoic aromanticism

How do you expect to write a novel
When ideas melt in tablespoons
or are blown in dusty clubs

You sit and watch rain fall in archaic gravel pits
By a window, long overdue for cleaning
and Jandek plays mournfully

Watch as that jaundice coloured sky opens
When the winds overturn dustbins
and form trash streams, ironic

Another languid day you waste on cannabis and ennui
Whilst the world burns; it's people raving
and the war is raging