Precursor

the warmth of the oil lamp

cooks my nose, 

thoughts corrode 

into broken English,

I’ve got to decode them,

an Octopus makes 

full use of its

hydroskeleton

gesticulating 

phallic symbols

all over my candlelit walls

I’m yet to hit my stride

I’m yet to write anything

that matters, Octopus ink

splatters over my empty page,

I think I’ll call it art