I am I am death, the dull hull of the sunken ship, old bones bumping on the bottom. I am consciousness, too, raw and unnerving; conscious consternation, fabrication of fornication: "How dare you?" he asks. "I fucked the bitch, too!" I reply. I am alive, the burning fire of desire, the bare white knuckles that strive to deprive; and I am the piss, the puss, the poison of the long straight arrow of hate aimed right at your eye. While seeking forgiveness of sin, I condemn the innocent to death; while drunk on wine and reeling, I set the guilty free. Ha! I am the epitome of hypocrisy unapologeic. I am light luminous, speech voluminous —and meaning totally devoid. I am the final flicker of the lamp that cracked, damp, dumb, numb. One moment I am aglow, eyes blazing; the next, dead, eyes glazing. I am the Phoenix unable to rise from the ashes; the penis finis, now limp and lazing after prolonged longing and lust; the little clitoris that can't, insensitive to Romeo's fumbling fingers; the nipples gone flat and soft as jelly on their fleshy mountain tops. I am the rust on the old sword, the bloody rags of rage and war. I am what is, what was, what will be. I am the past tense of the present, the present tense of the past, the future cancelled, and the dangling participle of what might have been. But don't expect a refund, dude! Your life is as pointless as mine. It wouldn't make a difference! I am nothing at all, nothing: the spot on the wall, the spit in the hall, that is seen when you look in my direction, because I am no longer there. I am contradiction, the current rendition of all things trivial, a limited edition of small truths and big lies ... I am, I am—nearly— everyone you meet these days!
	—By Louis Martin