The Joy of Writing

The novel consumed me,
A plethora of vultures
Attacking a corpse in the desert.
The novel was my child.
Pleasure and pain,
A thorn on a rose.
The novel fucked me.
Abusing my body,
It erased my mind.
The novel was a third shift waitress,
High on heroin,
At a cheap street corner dive.
The novel was me.
A clone, a brother,
Conscious and subconscious.
It was the sun behind the night.
And it was blinding.

- Written in the winter of 2003

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