This book is a testament to the idea that if you keep writing, something will form. Some of those shapes will be emojis, goop stains, paper cuts and everyday geometries. Trash and art are incestuous lovers, and I’m hoarding their offspring.

I’m an ugly talker, screeching like a pissbaby. I know that this book could be described as confessional – a gendered accusation, and a dirty word when trying to evade the constraints of both gender and genre. I’ve never read a poem that didn’t confess anything, didn’t betray the heart of its author. And I’ve never read a cringe-free poem, nor do I want to.

I was once deemed a basket case, and now that basket is filled with astro fluff, orbited by spinning tornado cows. Now my basket is hitched to a unicycle, discarded at the clown orgy. Now my basket is empty again.

I’m a naïve artist and a foolish poet. I eat MILF cereal and I have no money. I don’t know how to talk to anyone, much less an imagined reader. I cut and scissor in equal measures, and I encourage you to tear this book apart if you see fit.

I hope you fall into something sticky within these pages, or lose your keys, or your marbles.

You are wonderful. Taste my spit.

–Alex Creece