and a mess has been made
sore stomach, sore heart
sore slow creeping thinking
of what’s still to come
a passing fad, I fear
not all ahead, a grinding sensation
the clicking and clacking of messes
no one’s advantage, this slip-shod appealing
takes all of an hour
still a mess if you assess the moving things that never rest
a damp white shudder comes across your spinal cord
and all of this
yet more and why not
it’s ambition that’s missing
not messing up making anew
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.
subterrannean pleasure dome
destiny slept in today