i’m wasting my time
trying to write down this poem
and i know it
i did it already so many times
listening to cheap music
hoping to somehow be inspired
by vulgarity and stupidity
or to get angry enough
to quit
but like the potheads
i too need just one last smoke
one last mad dance on the couch
one last womanlike cry
on my way to absolution through self-pity

still,
by the time you’ll be reading this line
everything will be almost over
the minor drama of my poetic coup d’état
will have reached its climax
and died out
like a useless erection
and i will have learnt once again
that there’s nothing left
and that’s all there is to it.