Birds fly into
concrete, but none
near my house,
and where does

this purple reality
get shot from,
this one which
orders me,

Do not write.

There is nothing
worthy in my palette
when I don’t
describe my dark

universes, and all
the dirty dishes
come back dirtier,
less shapely, less useful.

No more terrifying
hatred, sir? These dank
alleys where my chaotic
paths lead, I shall
not poison.