Freestyle Prose Poem While Drunk
I wrote a terrible poem the other day, or perhaps it wasn't a terrible poem so much as it was a personal poem dripping with saliva and semen. Shouldn't true art be distant and far from the body, far from the press of bodies on the subway on the commute to work and the gluey consistency of the brain after hours of staring at a bright veil and forcing fingers to make whispering mountains where the wind can blow their innards out onto the dust like a corpse hacked open by a rusted sword. I just deleted a line, and I'm telling you this because I want to be honest with you, so I'll say this: I can't make Art. I can only make art.