bitter roasted ends of hair:
corrosive pleasures end up at the bottom of our
porcelain tub.

i had a problem with how many feet it had.

at once, you scowled and a tiny spider emerged from its
artificial hole, one that it thought it created.
the treachery of false thoughts and a forgotten creation

at its nucleus, the tub is a tyrant
once clean you must clean
a bitch slap to reality
turn its voice on- that ugly yellow and grey thread of smoke that
dyes my face and kills my guts.

one more celebratory growl for the tub
because at least we still fit in it.


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