Write this malnourished poem or manic-depressed
story. Watch the dogs scrape their hind quarters
across the floor until you realize that you don’t own
animals. No, what you see, good sir, are
gentlemen and gentle women whom would walk
on their back legs in three-piece suit tie, top hat or
or ballroom dress with the delicate white frill around
the skirt.
Pick your color! Are you male?—we have black, and
black.
Then.
Here it comes.
You look at your paw marks on the page, you are the
dog now.
Scratch your words together and make an effort until
you notice that you’re criticizing your own mark,
the one that you made.
Now you’re in that black three-piece suit
black hole, aren’t you? And then you criticize your
criticisms; black hole of fuck. And then you criticize
you criticizing your black of fuck criticisms,
and then you get into a black hole of fuck and then
you fuck
your fuck.
