i talk a lot
so full of words, they burst out at all angles
but the words, they're not big & fancy
or particularly descriptive
they don't fit the meter
they're just everyday words any schmo would use
they hang in the air like crooked paintings
like mirrors with wide, gilt frames

i like to postulate, pontificate
mostly i defecate
& a pen to me is like a roll of Charmin
i use it to wipe my brain
not even an impressive pen: a free ballpoint
it advertises something no one wants

when i hear myself talk
i'm amazed that anyone listens
always half-expecting someone to grab me by the shoulders
screaming: "you're completely full of shit!
that's why your eyes are brown
where your lungs should be there's diarrhea"

& you thought it was easy being a fraud
to just crank out nonsense & call it art
effortless
no, it weighs on the soul night & day

for weeks i don't speak
intent on waiting for inspiration
just don't say anything 'til it's really worth saying
but the words are restless - they must get out!
there is something that must be said!
if only i knew what it is
'cause when the words come flying
the inspiration is nowhere
it's just a convulsive tension release
like masturbating my brain

like raping the poor, unsuspecting reader's soul


-- 9th June 1998