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i was born to chill you


you’re good at this,

i think post-rinse

my own cold surge turns me tepid

as your nudity swirls for eternity—

contact quick lingers in my membrane;

the filth i came for—all parts out of my purview

the charge is long and clear at last

black suds

deep scents

mingling with your sliced hair

thick but fair unwanted parts

i am nothing but a puddle

set to drain

taiwanese water torture

it wears a thick winter coat of dirt

seven crescent moons instantaneously encrusted

as the pale plastic crevice peeks uncovered


to have sopped up

spilt liquid laundry

on the sacred space:

post-monday morning


antennae, lint, suds

satanized in place of sanitation

pads blistering?, heaving past the muddy tinkle

exhaustion resists reflection

while the light’s this bad

—at least