[Subtitle: He revels in artistic masturbation.] 1. It's been awhile, my empty page. I'm sure you've come to miss this screaming pen who had turned silent in order to achieve the illusion of Zen. I return again to write in sickening abundancy all about nothing. 2. Poetry is God. God is everything- an illusion therefor everything is nothing. 3. My words are emptiness wrapped in seeking; looking to produce something. As an image, all these lines- words- are colors painting the picture of raw, fucking putrid red meat oozing away every last bit of falsified nutrient. 4. My wanting, this seeking, in multi-dimensional directions, is redundant bloody wanking & ultimately inefficient. This poem is bullshit, evidence of intellectual deficit.