The towel I use to dry myself
Smells of meat almost spoiled.
Humid condensation leeches
Brown ichor from wallpapered walls.
Athwart an unsteady ignoble seat
Ringed with grime and decay,
I ponder the spider building his web,
Then dash his life away.
No small bird to peer within
This dank windowless room,
Sunk in miasma of unpleasant thought
Bitterly jealous of the tomb.
Ten units of plasma barely kept him stable.
They taped the tubes and his eyes.
Kept him on the table for six, seven hours.
And after all that, he died.
Brooding, claustrophobic walls
Close in about my knees.
My head free from enclosing constraint,
But not from what lies beneath.
The scars may be hidden above
But bore deep into bone.
Cannibal emptiness looses its stench
Upon the cloaca of the world.
Man was born to eat and shit,
And fail to digest for a time.
Would there were toilet paper enough
To wipe this ass of mine.