Vomit

fake artists, 

trust fund 

casualties 

flogging 

linear 

sold 

as panorama,

half arsed 

tales of 

Americana 

falling victim 

to coffee 

cup musings

bruising 

the ego

of the

wanna-be poet,

writers don’t write

it’s an exorcism

of the living,

now

we’re idly flalying 

watching 

WHY?

turn into

pie in the sky

now 

we’ve got

the art-thief,  

forging his stolen

masterpiece, 

I can’t emotionally 

escape with those 

who choose to imitate

there’s nothing in it,

they know it

I know it

and yet they 

try and flog it,

the chin scratchers 

love a good canvas

with 

vomit 

on 

it

I'm

lucky,

I haven’t

puked 

in 

years