a cloud of gnats
buzzing in my ear
supping on the rotted
flesh of the last
attempt to flog
the fetid corpse of
creativity until
their stomachs grow
distended all while
begging to add one
verse thus calling
it a collaboration
they can peddle off
as original content

i swat at them
doing my best to smile
through gritted teeth
don’t they see that
the person i was died
as the last was finished
now a mewling newborn
coming to terms with
inflicting new wounds
on my fresh pink flesh
having long shed
the rough leathery scars
that inspired the words
they long to desecrate
to fondle in a sickening
necrophiliac’s embrace

no no no
a thousand times i shall
decline them
these sycophantic smears
of fresh ink on
weathered parchment
dessicated leeches
trying to feed on
stagnant old lines
resurrectionists
and snake oil salesmen
telling whatever lies
they believe will sell
one more copy of a book
no one knows existed
passing off sketches
in crayon as monet
as i write in pus
feverish to die again