Inedita

His vast and pathetic, puerile inedita

piled up around him as sheets:

Sheets and sheets and sheets of shit,

the source of which had once been his brain,

now increasingly beside the point. 

In other words, it would have been better

without words, left in the dark, 

a putrid porridge in the bowl of his skull,

unuttered idiotically.

And yet, as the trashy accumulation

of thought for naught in the open grew,

and loathing attempted creation soared,

it did seem to serve to whip him on.