Work is the enemy of art.
When responsibility enters the picture
the creative erection wilts like a limp petal.
In the same way that marriage ruins romance
effort assassinates the abandoned flow of artblood
but humans are the only mammals always in heat
I raced fate and lost one time
but it didn’t bother me in the long-run
because I had already assumed the doom of a rebel.
I’ve been dead for years and yet
my ideas perk and my sperm swim
the butterfly and the breast stroke, sensual generations.
Whole new nations born of my indolence
Abraham spending his seed, collecting wanderers
folded into the work of art.
