A real artist uses sweat of course
And spit nail snot jizz and blood
Or crushes seeds in horse manure
Or mixes lampblack and petroleum jelly

I lied when I professed a Wordsworthian fear of vacancy
Hoping to be mistaken for the Mage
When in truth my cup runneth over
A surfeit of vile imaginings

I’m sorry Your Majesty
Death is not dusty
It’s moist sticky gelatinous and cold
Windex for glass so clean it seems to disappear