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I spent the day cleaning the boy-cunt witherings
off of a huge floor with memories more banked
than can be counted.
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A hello to me means a yelp and a look-out
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and a shaky hand ready to hold death like a charm.
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I lose loose in this room,
on this floor
and count the tiny things that
point directly at me:
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Not out of desire, but just pure need.
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The hung ones hang like laundry,
tickled pink and pale now.
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A pile of boy-clits that clank when
they touch each other,
______
which they never do.
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_______________________
Clearly written after a particularly bad night – probably on the weekend – and dreamt along with what actually happened as a clean-up.
______
He spends much of his time describing “the floor” as if it were an object rather than a place.
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