Spending the Night Trying to Get Inspired

I close the door

Inspiration is an illusion, you know

Troposphere, smelling gas from a canister

Puffing out smoke

Milk glass moon

All you can do is piss on the mountain

Watch the world go brown

I try to write, but nothing comes out

Inspiration is one tricky bastard

A cobra, dancing right and left

I bend down to write

My spine grows out of my skin

My flesh bursts with a thousand loti

Angular vertebrae bask in the moonlight

Trying to taste the tears of the sacral cacti

My skin has a life of its own

and so does my spine

My armpits grow a forest

of unknown Asteraceae

plaits and plaits of blooming petals

Snakes that reach up to the seventh seal

Cobras that dance to the dreams of lonely writers

spending the nights in handcuffs

under covers, working on their lost inspiration

treading softly on lonely hearts, sleepless souls

and glasses of crescent-shaped milk

dipped in oysters of dark-rimmed moon