Shit Poetry

A crushed peppermint on the pharmacy floor,
pressed into the linoleum by a thousand tired heels.
It looks like a pink tooth from a very small god,
bleeding sugar into the grey wax.

You were buying creams for a rash you couldn't name,
your eyes the color of a wet parking lot in Oulu.
We stood in the queue, smelling of rubbing alcohol
and the quiet desperation of a Tuesday afternoon.

I reached for your hand, but found a damp tissue instead.
We stood there in the fluorescent hum,
wondering which one of us was actually leaking.

A slab of blue cheese clings
to the Book of Job, page four hundred,
smelling of ancient basements and regret.
The mold is a map of a city
where nobody knows how to apologize.

You read it aloud while eating cold beans
from the can with a plastic fork.
The wind rattled the windowpane,
shaking a single, dead moth
from the ceiling fan.

God was probably just as hungry as we were.

A used bandage clings to a Limoges plate,
a beige, sticky island in a sea of white.
It smells of old iodine and dried blood,
beside a single, shriveled olive.

You wore your best dress to the funeral,
but your shoes were leaking grey slush.
We spoke in whispers about the inheritance,
while a fly drowned in the champagne.

It was the most honest meal we ever had.

A scrap of wet toilet paper clung to the Prada loafer,
a white, shivering flag of surrender.
It looked like a moth that had given up on the light
and decided to embrace the sidewalk.

The man walked through the rain with a focused sneer,
unaware of the translucent parasite on his heel.
Beside him, a puddle of gasoline shimmered,
painting the asphalt in oil-slick rainbows.

I watched him go, my own shoes leaking at the seams,
smelling of wet cardboard and cheap gin,
while the little paper ghost waved goodbye
to a city that never asked for its name.

A half-eaten corn dog sleeps on the velvet,
stuck to the seat like a desperate prayer.
It smells of old sweat and synthetic butter,
while the screen shows a desert where nothing grows.

I watched a single kernel roll toward the aisle,
a golden pearl in a sea of spilled soda.
Beside it, a discarded ticket stub
claims I was here for a love story I forgot.

The usher mops the floor with a grey rag
that has seen more sin than a confession booth.
He misses the corn dog,
bleeding a slow, yellow tear of mustard.

The curtains are the color of a bruised plum,
smelling of old cigarettes and damp wool.
You wore a perfume that promised a garden
but delivered a sterile waiting room.

We shared a cold slice of pizza
on a mattress that remembered a different war.
I loved the way you chewed your lip,
like a dog with a piece of stubborn gristle.

It was almost beautiful,
until the radiator started to scream.

A soggy cardboard box holds a frozen ham
and a small, handwritten note that says "Run."
The ice has melted into a grey puddle
that tastes faintly of copper and old pennies.

You left your earring in the grease-trap,
a diamond trapped in a sea of potato peelings.
I watched the janitor mop the floor
with the expression of a man who has seen God
and decided He was a fraud.

I am eating the ham with my fingers,
cold and salty, in the light of a flickering neon sign
that promises "Open" but is lying to everyone.

The drain holds a knot of wet hair
and a gold earring from a wedding in June.
It smells of bleach and yesterday's toothpaste,
a small, damp museum of everything I lost.

I tried to fish it out with a bent coat hanger,
stabbing at the sludge like a desperate surgeon.
The water swirled grey and thick,
carrying away a flake of skin and a dead fly.

I think of you in that silk dress,
all shivering and expensive,
while I stand here in my underwear,
holding my breath against the scent of sulfur.

A fried egg clung to the blue vinyl seat,
a yellow eye staring at the rainy street.
It had the patience of a forgotten debt,
warm and smelling of wet cigarette.

The driver cursed in a language of rust,
the windows coated in a fine, grey dust.
I sat beside it, my coat smelling of gin,
tracing the grease-map where the shift began.

When I stood to leave, the yolk gave way,
a golden smear for the rest of the day.
It looked like a sunrise on a thrift-store rug,
or the only gold I could ever afford.

There was a dead sparrow in the freezer
between a bag of dill and two pork chops,
small as a crumpled glove,
its beak full of permanent opinion.
The light came on like a liar entering church.
I stood there barefoot, holding mustard.

From the downstairs flat came opera and coughing.
My sink held three forks and a peach pit.
I thought of you in your red underwear,
smoking by the window like rent was a religion.
Even the sparrow looked better preserved than us.