I began to think that burning one’s fingers had nothing on one spitting ink,
and with this in mind, I found my palette lined with asbestos.
The lights turn blue with cigarette smoke and the fumes from petroleum lamps, cramps in my hands creasing the words that I write,
a slight irritation in my bowels which could be me or the emergence of too many unnecessary vowels.
I question the use of the juice from an artery
to lay down on this page a few lines of cheap poetry.
© 2020, John Smallshaw.