questioning the state of the artist

If I fuck the landlady   
once a month   
steal my toiletries   
from the hotel she takes me to    
wear Sally Army clothes    
(except underwear and shoes)   
If I choose my furniture on Freecyle   
find my television in the skip   
toke my highs from home grown   
If I rescue dinner     
out of foodmarket bins   
and always search for change     
down the side of sofas   
   
How long could I survive?   
   
until I've won     
my first     
poetry prize