benjamism

The windows are cracked and taped.

Each day of the month, and each month

of the year, and the varying degrees of melancholy,

I mapped out on the floor of its opening.

His message wears the rub of kindness

but sticks like wear to a old linoleum floor.

The kind of bruise that pretends to be friendly,

but you presume it would rob you if it had the chance.

It stole some laundry deturgent,

and got dirt all over the sap, weeping

from the lips of the bottles mouth.

Dirty soap dissolves less within innocence,

then in the guile conclusions of an orgasm.

Like clean breath and rotten teeth.

These are what I call bruises,

because they wear the fluorescent light so

nicely, and naturally.

The sun only robs them of their rotten elegance.