I can’t even count how many objects you so hawk
From your gaping maw with stains of nameless substances.
How your papers darken with forgotten liquids; bruised
Apple cores turn brown & yellow, swarmed with plump li’l flies.
Still I smell that odor sharp like needles splashed in piss;
Still I feel the stickiness that never shall subside,
Like the ghost of cream that streams out from a phallus cocked.
I desire to roll in you all day, pristine refuse,
For it is in you I know I truly should reside.