I haven’t written a piece worth naming in weeks, all I’ve been doing is recycling through the dead stuff, the heavy leafy dead white pages with nothing but fake anger fake cynicism, fake life. Riffling through pages upon pages of detritus, doing nothing but reaffirming my own utter short falls. Shining a black light on the seamen stained sheets I try to pass off as good poetry. All I’ve done is grab up authors of true creativity and shove them in my mouth and masticate until they are sweet and juices. Lost of all their great substance, their wisdom, morals, bestow able knowledge. Once truly masticated they get spit out, hard flying towards the ground without any respect. After they’ve laid there on the ground long enough to dry and harden, I then take them in my hands and rub anything at hand on them. Dirt, dog shit, love, hate, breath, sweat. All of it goes into this disgusting blob that once was great prose, or poetry, or maybe a novel.