writing a novel = bullshit.
i
become
my
own
test chimp/ill and patched
scratching
in
a
cage.
i have abandoned myself emotionally.
i have no idea what Werded Art is/just
waiting
hungry and placid/grateful
for
a
drugged banana
behind thin metal bars/dusty wooden blinds.
always going up the shop for bread/tins/bottles.
small mongrels bark out parked cars.
sub-woofers tried out in 80s hatchback by moody young men in ¾ trousers.
ginger one shouts
BSE CUNT!
at an invisible swearing mother.
i write this novel behind that window/behind these doors and i see these things between
bad sleep
bad movies
bad pay-
stay awake just to watch TV?! i'm not enjoying?!
writing
this
novel
=
BS.
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