I've unexpectedly become allergic
to ink written for the sake
of watching obsidian shimmer on ivory
with no mind for comprehension of duality,
to beards and foppish French hats,
the smells of stale coffee and pretension
wafting from the podium where words
dribble out and splash forgotten
against the floor like keg dregs
no more meaning than a cheap night
with a cheap whore in a cheap hotel
just use them up and toss them in the trash
to moulder and decay in rotten abandonment.

It makes me break out into a rash
untempered writhe, flailing thrashing raging
and oh God I wish we were all empathetic
these words aren't enough, can never be enough
to tell you how I feel, and you'll never
understand exactly why I hate you so much.