Speedball? Try watching ASMR and hardcore porn at the same time, and then we’ll talk addiction. Assuming writing has died and I was to remagine how writing could assume a living form – these are the severed limbs from which I would assemble it: violent, and transitory spurts of an arousal taking shape in blood and waste, sound made manifest in me become a vessel for a phrase without a word, a work without its meaning. Look, but do not touch upon me. I am nothing if not openly a tribute to disaster, to the ruin I engage with. Speaking is an act of stillness; of replacing where one is with what one thinks could be the truth, Man could get used to. Conventions in writing are like chords in music: indicative of the notes we have to break apart. If this is what it means to be a poet I want my youth back, my health restored. I want to be the image of the smallness I deny, and still let pass; the every little detail made to make of me surpassed, sure hazard – tabu trash and bastard just for stubborning aloud. Something new is out to find me, here to call me out on choice. Somehow I am learning it is well to do what’s wrong, right to go where none around me knew before, dared to have it, grew to be incarnate worst. Kinks tamed, and bursting from the names we write in ink, the sentences we think could keep us safe, don’t worry. There is nothing we can carry someone didn’t steal before us.