I prefer writing with a used pen found in the street

or with a promotional pen, gladly one from the electricians,

the gas station or the bank.

Not just because they are cheap (free),

but I imagine that such an implement

will fuse my writing with industry

the sweat of skilled labourers, administrative offices

and the mystery of all existence.

Once I wrote meticulous poems with a fountain pen

• pure poetry about purely nothing

but now I like shit on my paper, tears and snot.

Poetry is not for sissies!

A poem must be just as honest as the Dow Jones index

– a mixture of reality and sheer bluff.

What has one grown too sensitive for? Not much.

That’s why I keep my eye on the bond market

and serious pieces of paper.  The stock exchange

belongs to reality – just like poetry.

And that’s why I’m so happy about this ball point pen

from the bank, which I found one dark night

in front of a closed convenience store.  It smells

faintly of dog piss, and it writes fantastically.