by William A. Marshall

go ahead, it’s your story
it’s an extrapolation and
you’ve got the (tile) floor  
for certain genera who listen
throw it up -
all over the **** place
in a documented assembly
or novel ode
your feelings hurl from the past
from petite chestnut corners
of your skull
rinsing the snow-white clips
and pages once innocent and fresh
now blotched up
in your porcelain sink  
half digested commitments
mixed in a wicked soup
that flows downward, slowly
plunged in there - to the wrist
you did it to yourself,
doggedly unsettled  
because it’s exclusive to you
to you and your mirror that talks
chunks of desire floating
in your opinion
how the hell do I know?
well, I’ve seen your sketchy
inactive pipeline up close
I’ve been clogged there too
and recall your lips stirring
but now I observe your smoking
sewer grill from the path
while fumes burn and hurl
from your
****