Dry, congruous, neatly white,
a pedophile of sorts, he’s so
frustrated ‘cause he knows they’re
not his children to play with.
He just borrows them for a few
years, as long as “them” pleases,
as long they’re a leash,
effective.
Runs smooth across surfaces etch-
ed in millionth year scum, I feel
dirty just being there, glued to my
chair and smiles too, he smiles
the senile lecher, hater of
all that is to the least human.
How much of that is in
me already. Fingers run across
the table surface etched in
oilseed rape, the slick
fingerprints of many undesired ones
are already there, skittering.
Dripping from a slit.
Thoughts retract into a near
childhood, and the spirit in red
winding beside and past me
(Why must our impulses, desires
be shared by him, by others?):
So much faith in such a tiny soul,
So much filth for such a tiny hole.
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