we are a mess,
we are foully worse than a mess.
a mess can be cleaned.
we are a stain of leftover pain from
a secret blood ritual practiced in the dark
on an ancient sabbath.
we are a cyclone of orderly doubt and small-mindedness,
of dependence on drugs and onanism.
ephemeral pleasure is our God.
we have little time
but that's never been an obstacle
to our lust for wasting it,
along with the timid dignity of our souls.
we all wear the hair shirt and the crucifix
and the necktie and
the jagged-toothed chastity belt.
none of us really knows why.
we all have our favorite dirty things
and we all secretly dislike our own stink,
and love it, too.