He the Lord of all creatures created the drug called artaine
          the drug of art
          of modest small old surrealistic art.
          (Ivan Blatny)¹

Today I’m watching black teenagers perform death drops.

I’m watching Artists perform riots with their makeup on.

I’m writing a novel about my daughter Sinead.

Today at the breakfast table, Sinead says to me: “You look so old, pappa, you look like you’re about to die.”

I have scars on my head and my shoulders.

I write novels about my skin, which is a failure.

Once I wrote one performance piece after I had been in a car crash.

On the TV I watched: one black widow and one white widow.

My nurse had black nail polish.

I wrote a performance piece called “The Widow Party.”

I wrote a breathing piece after watching a cartoon set in the desert.

I wrote a pastoral poem because my mask itched.

It was made of lamb meat.

My mask.

It was infected.

Maggots crawling all over.

I piled the dead bodies up on the ground because I felt media move through my shitty body.

I translated a poem about global capitalism because I was tired of cutting myself.

There was a butterfly humming in the wound, sucking the nectar out of the sweet sweet muck.

I wrote a performance piece about breaking into an old movie set with a hammer.