V. 2, #34: May 1, 2013

A bad taste at the back of my sick throat,
as if the Toad of My Most Loathsome Thoughts
were squatting there to rub his slimy bloat
against my tongue's most pink, receptive dots;

Or rather if the Sewage Treatment types
who purify the gurglings of my Id
have not repaired the rusted, leaky pipes
that bear the filth away. ("Tough cookies, kid.")

There must be scientific terms to name
the foulness trickling toward my stomach wall
and reasons for its flavor; just the same,
I'd much prefer it not exist at all.

But no--I'll keep on gulping down the crap
until my white blood cells shut off the tap.