Events Conspire to Remind me of my Repulsive Fallacies
I'm dirty. I can feel it.
It's the kind of grime ground deep into fleshy pores, past them, mashed into every fiber of muscle and every spasm of nerve ending, clogging veins and filling bones. It's that transient horror you see if you pass a mirror too fast: for a second the glass turns traitor and flashes you a nasty bit of ugliness. No mere mirror image, some form of truth straight up and dirty. A trick of the light? Beelzebub above your lavatory sink? Like a perverse kink hidden beneath pedestrian domesticity. Gasp! Repulsion! This filth comes as nasty, dark little secrets that fester fester fester, polluting the lubdub lubdubs of normalcy, of respectability, until the frantic staccato of spreading corruption has beat its way into your blood and you gag. Can you see it? This aura of taint that chokes heavy around me? I can't scrub out my stains.
I've no easy rinse-wash cycle for my deeds.
It's the kind of grime ground deep into fleshy pores, past them, mashed into every fiber of muscle and every spasm of nerve ending, clogging veins and filling bones. It's that transient horror you see if you pass a mirror too fast: for a second the glass turns traitor and flashes you a nasty bit of ugliness. No mere mirror image, some form of truth straight up and dirty. A trick of the light? Beelzebub above your lavatory sink? Like a perverse kink hidden beneath pedestrian domesticity. Gasp! Repulsion! This filth comes as nasty, dark little secrets that fester fester fester, polluting the lubdub lubdubs of normalcy, of respectability, until the frantic staccato of spreading corruption has beat its way into your blood and you gag. Can you see it? This aura of taint that chokes heavy around me? I can't scrub out my stains.
I've no easy rinse-wash cycle for my deeds.