pull out your eyes
and only then tell me
what you have really seen;

pull out your teeth
and only then try chewing
on my shards of glass

painlessly.

I met a dog
that would only
feed off
stories,

we sat-
me, on an old
***-stained chair
with this dog
by my side-

and I told stories,
of new and old;
this ******* dog
was wagging its tail
at the
saddest stories,
things that
should never
even be
told.

it proceeded to
gnaw
violently
at my calf
and occasionally
digging into my thigh,
as if it could smell
that the
most
miserable
misanthropic
stories
fester under my
skin;
stories on
all sorts of
failed
things.

“this ******* dog,
I tell ya,
is a real
sadistic
****”-
I write
with a chunk
of flesh
missing
from my
side.

art has
no discounts;
it creates habits
which you can't support,
it creates
leftover
cigarette buds
which are suddenly
so attractive
and smokable.
it cuts scars
right open,
makes them
ripe
for seeding,
it rots the seeds,
proceeds to
plant them
in any
visible sore
and then,
one day,
you're suddenly
decaying.

art has
no discounts,
only one form of
contract-
"sign here
to agree
to a lack
of food
and an increase
in the rate
of your
mental
degeneration".

art has
no discounts;
yet here I sit,
writing,
because there's
no
universe
without
it .