After contemplating ceilings
and what kind of creative genius I was
I stood on my feet
turned on the light
ate sunflower seeds and homegrown
gooseberries from a cage in the garden
sliced off my ears with a butcher's blade
so that I might better collect bee-like
the anesthetic honey from a Durex Performa
to soothe the pain in my head

I stopped and listened

My nicotine white smoke alarm
spoke out again and again shrill
but like it was in a rubber jar said

DO NOT PAINT

I googled NOT PAINTER
it came up with Frank O'Hara
"I am not a painter, I am a poet"
I read it a hundrehundred thousand times
all I know for sure is

I smoked a cigarette and thump
was told that smoking kills and thump
harms people around me
I'm alone but I couldn't swear to that
the blood where my ears were
keeps me warm like shirodhara thump
I can no longer feel the urgency of advice
I look down and thump
the floor is painted red like really red
like fire engine red and thump
I've written nothing and thump
no one's coming