Fucking pipes. I am staring at a wall
ridden with winking cloacas.
Everything from Bach to the bird-box
stinks in the sluckering glop.
A filthy scrummage of pipes
and discharge threatens the throat.
My bradawled nostril shuttles between
pensioner’s crap and the croup of rooms.
I think of the terrible food
endured as a child. The flinching face.
My mother like a spouted gargoyle and the plate
pumping like an infected pap.
This place is good for absolutely nothing
only the poetry I’ve worked hard to avoid.
Fuck it. The old fucker over the way
snores like an ejaculating ghat.
If you have any comments on this poem, Kevin Cahill would like to hear from you.