I am the center of the drain,
The bottom of the suck.
The world passes through me and
I collect the detritus:
Stems and rinds and egg shells,
Clumps of hair and worry, paint chips,
Broken glass and fury,
Dirty bites and foul words,
Dead skin, soggy newspaper,
Burnt crumbs, murk and sewage.
When I become clogged,
So befouled with clutter and rot,
Stifled and stunted by
The spoils of love and war,
Stopped with refuse and the refused,
The completely unhinged and maculated,
I cannot gasp to scream.
A festering meditation
Akin to death
But less composed.
A monk born in a septic tank
Muttering filthy mantras,
Scratching at the infection
With clotted lungs and soft eyes.
I no longer have a taste
For the world which flows through me.
Rank water and rotten fruits,
The cascades of garbage swirling
Toward me are like sandpaper against my heart;
Abrasive, the gnashing teeth of a petulant shark,
Salted whips on my wet skin, a storm of thorns.
I feel alien. Uncomprehending,
I swallow the endless assault.
Gorged on rot and sludge and disappointment,
I feel myself succumbing to the indolence, eyelids crusted and heavy,
Forever distant from the dwindling vestige of sky.