He the Lord of all creatures created the drug called artaine
the drug of art
of modest small old surrealistic art.
Today I’m watching black teenagers perform death drops.
I’m watching Artists perform riots with their makeup on.
I’m writing a novel about my daughter Sinead.
Today at the breakfast table, Sinead says to me: “You look so old, pappa, you look like you’re about to die.”
I have scars on my head and my shoulders.
I write novels about my skin, which is a failure.
Once I wrote one performance piece after I had been in a car crash.
On the TV I watched: one black widow and one white widow.
My nurse had black nail polish.
I wrote a performance piece called “The Widow Party.”
I wrote a breathing piece after watching a cartoon set in the desert.
I wrote a pastoral poem because my mask itched.
It was made of lamb meat.
It was infected.
Maggots crawling all over.
I piled the dead bodies up on the ground because I felt media move through my shitty body.
I translated a poem about global capitalism because I was tired of cutting myself.
There was a butterfly humming in the wound, sucking the nectar out of the sweet sweet muck.
I wrote a performance piece about breaking into an old movie set with a hammer.