childish
As the past tense becomes deeper the stench becomes wiser,
there is a movement, a realization
of the moving, breathing, fucking, thinking, selfishly naïve, childish—you are a child,
daunting pile of sewage, moldy cardboard, seeping batteries, dented motherboards,
opaque plastic bags, rotten milk, sizzling waste that is behind me.
I take a stomp forward, I hold hands with the wise and gifted,
but am cursed, my head twists backwards, snaps my neck, and I become putrid too.
I know you are too preoccupied to recall, to you they are translucent experiences,
neatly outlined by your own disinterested wording,
but to me it is an ambiguous shape that’s beating rouge into my pupils.
I can’t deny, how at first it made things clear,
but now it swirls muck and confusion in and out of the past tense.
We are children at recess, casually shoving faces in thick mud.