The Modern Writer is on a never ending quest
for salvation through an almost dead medium.
The sheep flock to their computers trying to
become the next batch of immortals, but their
DNA lacks the gene for change, the hemispherical
trait that produces innovation.
Their eyes are bloated with pigskin
lies and cyber compliments.
It's been said that my work is like fine music
coming out a fair maiden's vocal entries.
Give me downtrodden streets and clothes
drenched with sawdust and bad wine.
Give me rooms full of emptiness and the
scribble of a pencil producing vile magic
on a worn sheet of paper.
Give me Hamsun, Dostoevsky and Bukowski.
Give me insanity locked in a box with fine
feathers taped around the surface, and the
knowledge that will allow me not to look for the key...
