I wrote like a madman
Poured my whole soul into it
At least what I thought was my soul
Didn’t answer the phone
Forgot to shave and didn’t brush my teeth
Struggled to find my muse in the bottle
Only to get drunk earlier than usual
Strived to make great literature
Out of the mad scramble
Sloshing around in my head
As a dirty stray dog stuck his head
Through the hole in my front-door screen
I thought of the women I had been with
Their thighs, buttocks, and breasts
Their soft warm skin and shrill laughter
There might be a line or two in it
Sex always works, even in a poem
That is supposed to be literature
Maybe I should rot in prison
With a life sentence as an
Accessory to murdering art
Spend my days stamping license plates
Instead of harboring the illusion
Of being a creator of literature