::11:09:08::

::: Sitting on the Bottom of a Skillet :::

Infused in this place
forgotten and neglected-
the violence of enforced laziness.

I feel a bed-sore growing;
how the nubs
of my femur
and tail
attempt to squeeze through
invisible exits:

This thin flesh-
growing ruby and calloused,
peeling gray
to stain.

These oil rags, sucking
me and those before
dry, are not
less nauseating
than kerosene soaked ropes-
whose broken coils
remind me of the pain
in my cracking gums;
a wire brush thistle.

The clock, the slam:
the faulty intercom, whose
war-cry/med-cry
lugs its lame
child
in merciless attempts
(to dis-resemble the Madonna);
a flapping Pieta, squaking-
doesn’t encourage me of a guilt
that I can’t own.

The unnatural florescent
stillness,
glowing digitally
monotonous…
all OOOOOOOOOOO’s…
just like the asses smiling-
with molten breath and
brown sound.

You thought your tactics
were concealed beyond consciousness,
but your system…
the interruptions…
façade…
the spectacle...

YOU HAVE BEEN DISCOVERED MR.OZ!

Your legs were showing
when you squat to sh*t…
under the shower curtain.
Just like our.

YOU HAVE BEEN DISCOVERED MR.OZ…

It was you who sh*t on the toilet seat…

YOU MR.OZ,
put toothpaste
in their sandals

…stole the fag-kid’s
doughnuts…

IT IS YOU, WHO STINKS MR.OZ!
Because you refuse to shower.

Written by: ~ Jeremiah D. Reeves