Tar

It oozes from every crevice.
Engulfing all senses
Smell
Sight
Touch.

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It oozes from every precipice.

​

So prepare yourself.
Take your weathered hands
And your virgin palms
And your light fingers
To draw the curtains shut,
To dim the lamps until they’re barely luminous.

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Ensure no voyeuristic pleasure is derived
By a peeping Tom, dick, or Harry
When you bathe yourself
In the vicious liquid
That leaves a stain,
Refusing to vanish.

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Proceed to take innumerable hot showers
In a bid to rid the feeling
Of the gooey contaminate
That has decided to call

​

Your skin its new home.

​

The tar has moved in
Along with its Radiohead records,
Its Elliot Smith posters,
Its Sylvia Plath book of poetry,
And Raymond Carver short stories.

​

Rinse it under cold water for a fortnight or two.

​

Blame it on the cloudy sky that has everybody down.

​

Just don’t let it consume you.

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Feedback:

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