the taste of cotton wakes you up
in some no-hour, windowless room.
rubbing flakes of caked eye makeup on
cement floors, you crawl into your coat
and down the sidewalk home,
scraping your underside raw and white.
in front of mirrors, you wipe the rust of
spiked drinks from your collarbone, scrub
grime and eye it as the catholic drain
gurgles your sin and indulgences down.
closing in on yourself so you can
see black pores and ribwork, you wonder
if your pallid due to purity, or
because you bled the bad out with the good.
wow, thats actually pretty good. got anymore????