poem: massacre filth clinging close to the crevice

massacre filth clinging close to the crevice
dig out the dirt in the grout, in your ears
countless old curses come shrieking from shadows
each, itself, riddled with fears

“please, just Keep Coming,” the bald old crocs urge
“we’re all so eager to help”
this a decision you’re not cleared for making
within the cold cage of the Self

plus, who wants changes and terrible hurt?
the puking is keeping you svelte

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