i was writing an epic poem

in ottava rima and was told

by a few of discerning taste

and acerbic tongue that

it was funny, and witty, and

original, but after a day

followed by many others days

of

crushing labor and a neighbor’s

barking dog and a hard on with

nowhere special to go it’s all I

can do to write like this:

a desperate poem

from a desperate man

to other desperate souls:

when the brain bleeds

the pen screeds.

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