there is a warmth in filth,
a familiarity in the dirty that feels fine.
get it on in the mess, make more. hail
the blanket around the body that is dirty!
harangue me on hygiene all you please,
I am above it; or, I am underneath,
like a bug under a rock or old sock hiding
between bed frame and mattress, not knowing light for months.
Well, it looks like I've majorly lapsed on the poem-a-day habit. Not to worry. I'm taking a short break to finish the Balkey story line....
“What,” the young, scarred and scabbed Scib said, “did Mr. Pin calm him – Bixson-” And Balkey closed the gap as soon as the word left the...
Tell him Coral has finally gone sour and the Pin is as crooked as we all thought,” fryed Balkey and eyed the straight and tall, the...