Art is just another contest held by morons
or sometimes a moron contest held by art.
Loading the dice with worthless trinkets, they think themselves subtle
but a single ugly word is enough to crack written concrete.
Envy of creation is all that can really inspire the poet
and praise is nothing but resentment in a clever disguise.
The only way to advance is to wear nothing but question marks
and march unflinching through a rain of ink-dipped arrows.
And if you're drowning in shit or other people's impatience
then the only place where you can feel clean is with me.

When fountain pens cause blood to run down necks
worthy poems will at last begin to form.