A pile of mud
moving, re-animated:
you watch a trail of stink

—striking everyone's senses—
I'm leaving behind.

A man of mud walks toward you,
sliding smooth
on the façade of a greasy pavement

coming at you
longing, to solicit
your pity

—my body crumbles
at each step I ****** towards you
while watching myself being torn apart.

I stretch my arm, and then my stiff fingers,
each soaked in tears,
to grab whatever I can out of you.

I disintegrate into emptiness
at every attempt I make
—all futile, meaningless.

My muddied lips
set apart to plead,
but only a screeching noise

comes out,
squeaking,
like that of a mouse.

You,
the one with a shovel
—sharp is the blade—

scream at me,
whacking my clay-man body
with your murderous tool

you hold so tight
—this sight of Mudman
must be hideous indeed

to those pupils of innocence,
burning brightly
with consuming hatred.

    Lying on the floor
    flattened, unaccepted,
    the muddied lips

    that survived the shattering blow
    are squirming still.

    You grind them under your heel
    merciless.