This won’t be love-
making. It’s an empty
construct. An abomination.
Keep reading and I will
promise you no
symbolic language, no
archetypal characters, no
deus ex machina, no
meaning buried beneath
the text—except a lusty
reverence for the very act of
creation. This is poetic masturbation.
Likewise, it will soon spiral
out of control. Its climax
leaving only damp
words which will surely
crust and crack all over
the page, as if pressed
pulp were no more
than an old, grey gym
sock, stiff and stuffed behind
some teenager’s bedframe.
So, as a poet, what do I have
to say for myself? I don’t
want romance. I want
just to pass the time
and, maybe, build something
pretty, but dumb; to
erect wanton uselessness.
(2004)
