The ****** of the old
The brake of the new
The opposite
Of which
You want to do
As long as it's funny
Then that's what
We have gone through
As long as the
Essence
Is pure and true.

If you went on
Who do you think you are?
And found out
Your great step uncle
Was a high ranking ****
Or a distant cousin
The head of the Stasi
Would you feel complicit?
Even though your bloods
Arent that near
Cos it seems
Some of mine
Were Lodz ghetto
World War Two
Profiteers.

They don't like the way things are
Or were
And view them
As the same
They'd rather
It be chaos
And still
Apportion blame.

Where did the literary
giants write their masterpieces?
Thoughts like this plague
me when my mind stews.

I heard that Hemingway
stood to write.
Did any of them write on
the toilet?
Straining to ****...
"Call me Ishmael"
Could that have been the genesis
for Moby ****?

I like to write in bed, sleep
competes with the creative
process, but I keep coffee on
my nightstand.
I prop myself with
Hawkeye pillows, and
arrange the vapes.
Cigarettes are gone, but the
nicotine addiction remains.

No ***** to spill on
the pages, and no woman to
vie for my affection.
Tonight, I make love to
the page.

This well has a bottom
But it's so far
To fall
You die of starvation
Before
You hit the floor
With weeks to think
About why
You plummet
You surely
Could compose
Many a Sonnet.