Being a poet since eleven or twelve
it's not easy slipping
into the skin of an anti-poet,
see through such eyes
the truth
in a different light,
a different beauty
as close to ugliness as your lovers breath
     is close to you;
taking up residence in a brain
emitting images
as absurd as life itself.
I have no other recourse
than the slitting of my wrists.
Whatever flows out
is what you'll read.
Not that anyone reads anymore.