All Writing Is Pigshit


Make words, it’s easy.

Wake up at 5am, someone is always
spouting bile, I am always ready.

Every day, the money from the state
gets a little smaller. We wipe our asses
with Bukowski, to scrimp on spending,
I still need money for paper.
Every day, it’s so lurid
inside and out the house.
I stick my head up my ass
until quiet comes,
to breed peace for a while,
until I can write.