Foul and fowlish woman,
Invite me in and let me see this filth
You speak of. Your den smells
A little like cigarettes. That's good.
You understand the healing power of smoke
And grease, and dirt, and body fluids on the mind.
Savor your time alone in the house
To be gross, to be common and ill-clothed
To wipe whatever you please wherever
And to leave your begging traces
Because your children don't notice,
No matter how much you peck at them.
Your husband is too tired to make faces
Too tired to make love.
And no one else enters the solitude
The real solitude
Of your married life.
I'll stand behind you while you mix eggshells
Into your own birthday cake.
Then let's go out
With red, red mouths -
Let the slithering slime infect the walls
Break the vacuum
Defile.