The smell of fresh, hot shit from jalapeno dip doesn’t make me sick…
What does the trick is the herbal blossom mist that mixes with this.
So my fist grips the handle like a neck I wanna strangle and chop…
My job is bad enough but this makes me wanna mangle my mop.
The dispenser and its timer, is a censor and reminder that I control not…
Even the smells I have to smell while I’m cleaning these porcelain pots.
Of yellow piss spots, drying blood drops, shit stains and snot sprays…
Once an hour I have to scour, then dash home to shower and bathe.
Which is ok cuz home’s not far away in this obsessive compulsive plot…
It’s easy, see, cuz I live in an RV that’s parked right in this parking lot.
And it fills my thoughts; anger does, frustration and visions of slaughter…
Cuz bathing 10 times a day always means having to refill the water.
Like martyrs; in life, I get overlooked, overtook and passed right by…
The knowledge I exist was missed, though I’m right in front of their eyes.
I despise these robots, these zombies, the walking dead who shop at Sears…
Who seem to babble at nothing until you see the wire hanging out their ear.
I fear I’ll combust with disgust and distrust, I just can’t take that much…
Before I snap like a rigid penis that slips out from under a fat fuck.
I’m stuck in this location, no salvation as it pertains to my challenge...
Bromide jugs on top of chloride cups, describes my brain’s imbalance.
That brings malice to my job of cleaning up a slob’s waste and mess…
And I profess my distress even more when the suit’s replaced by a dress.
Cuz despite being blessed with success and achieving college grad…
I find their panties streaked with blood from the abortion they just had.
In fact, their bathroom has a different smell when I take my breaths…
It’s pungent as hell cuz tampons and pads blend an aroma of death.
Like the meth I indulge in when my day is done in, feel the rush; release…
Cuz to clean shit and get paid for it is just waiting for the day you’re deceased.
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