in the the shag rug,
crumbs of my life
embedded and tredded
with the rest of the dust and dirt
a hoarder's home.
All my jolted art, bottled pop,
God, I forgot.
I scare myself.
Thought I was covert
MORSE CODE
decoder ring
not included
just beeps and boops
robot music beats
echoing between cracks
with the filth.
Thunder in the distance-
know the sound?
Imagine that sound.
Hooves to run me over-
my own words, specks of me, the
Would've, Could've, Should've,
but I am messy, crummy, cruddy crud
I did not. I would not. I have not.
Surprise, horror,
my grimy whispers were heard
between the warp and weft.
Perhaps louder than I thought?
Not just bare-foot stuck
grains of grot, for which others
clabber to remove, but savored.
My trash savory.
I thought it disposed
to a pit only I would visit.
Suppose if I am to be taken in, take it all.
I will distill every breath of my humanity,
from greasy forlorn to squalid bone,
my chaotic assumptions that no one
actually, really, in fact, indeed looked,
if for more than a minute, not longer.
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