Looked in the lint trash
What, a bucket of spiders?
But that's just my smarm, I mean
Charm, yes so charming, I
Feel I should tell
You: See, I am the kind
Of a man whose particles of rage all blend blisters into macrame
What? That's to say I only craft with vengeance, Art is Hell.
I'm not really sure, see, it seems I
have so many words inside and yet
No order, no syntax, no form, no norm.
Can't spin A.D.D. into gold, No,
I can't tremble, blink, then in that
Blink! Distill a miracle
Of words whose sentience, er,
Sentence myself to the chair,
The chair at the computer where,
I shiver and sigh, sob, eye.