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
what can cure this filth?
effort only, spurred by guilt
drugs will calm these dull desires
at least until my stash expires
The apartment was filled with debris from years of neglect – many moons’ worth of dust accumulated on every surface. All manner of hairs – at least a half a dozen types of animal – had settled throughout the cramped and rancid space.
Betty Donovan swore she’d clean it up one of these days. Particulate swirled around her whenever she stirred from her easy chair – which wasn’t often, these days.
Plans are made and broken – made to be broken, like the proverbial rules, perhaps.
And yet she swears it’ll happen, a tidy-up, a quick spring clean, one of these springs. She tells this to herself, mostly – she used to tell visitors, when she had them.
Late this evening, after startling awake from a fitful doze, she shuffles from her chair over to a greasy mirror, smears some of the filth from it, leaving uneven streaks from her brittle fingers. She gets a glimpse of herself – thin hair loose and wild, lips dry – and the hint of a tear wells up in the corner of one eye before she blinks it away. She returns to her chair and sleeps.