I mean, why not just sort of roll around
in the mud, let the filth of it cover you entirely,
let its reek gag you until odor-fatigue
begins to work its nasty little magic?
Why not refuse hands offered to help you up?
They don’t know the freedom that comes
with being able to just shit in your shit.
There’s nothing quite like rooting around
with your face buried in what shoulda-coulda-woulda,
snorting, coveting, pining.
And don’t even get me started about slop
quality. You got your rinds, rots, cobs, swills,
just-turned-green’s, and nobody-remembers-
what-it-is’s. There’s always something more
to feed upon. Always.
Other Poetry - December 2012