There’s a space at the end of my bed
Sometimes
I sit and collect
The dead bugs that were trapped under the lampshade
I wonder how long they sat there, quietly dissolving down
the unforgiving funeral carpet
white and emotionless underneath them
oh they wanted light and day and warmth
but these pleasant comforts of the home
translate
a minefield
the hard lines of a roof, black and steep
the plastics, cottons, metals,
overflowing, oozing out of the windows like a runny nose
where is wisdom
oh would she say of me now?
Filling up on my plastics, on my cold abode
What is raw, what is unrefined, unmanufactured
Give me that and be free. Oh forgive my vanity
I say, as I pick their delicate wings
Motionless, forgettable,
Burying them in my white plastic trashcan
With
the receipts and the packaging
