Originality Chastise
I was in the mood for writing
so I gathered some recycled newspaper
and sat down to put words
over words
that had already been cemented in time,
I thought of writing
about Auschwitz,
descriptively of Jews
lampooned, prodded, lobotomised
like battery hens,
I thought of writing
of a boy named It,
whose fatherly attention
was handed to him
on knuckled plates of fists,
I thought of writing
of some colossal weight loss,
of a doll inside a doll inside this big Russian maid
with bushy side burns who proved doctors wrong
when they said she had a stomach that lipo wouldn’t fix,
then I thought
that maybe I wouldn’t write
because what is the point,
there is a market for everything
but originality.
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