Rattle of a Simple Man

T

Vintage

I’m the dragon-fly wing in the radiator grill

I’m the cricket smeared by the thong

I’m the soaking-wet newspaper in your garden

I’m the waxed strip torn from the bikini line

I’m the Band-Aid that covered the sore too long

I’m the blood clotted in the chamber of a pick

I’m the beer-can home to lip-smeared butts

I’m the puke in the bag from an airsick child

I’m the denture scrubbed wholesome for the old relative in his Sunday best, motionless in the open coffin in the darkened front room of a housing trust flat

I’m the bloodied toothbrush from the overzealous scrubbing of a traveller with a gum disease.

I’m the filthy residue clogging the in-pipe of an ugly home-made bong.

I’m the eyelash on the pillow of an optimistic young actor.

I’m the smoking piece of shrapnel lodged in the organ of a poor black conscripted to fight a filthy war for a bunch of tough-skinned rich white bastards.

I’m the repeat prescription for Aurox tablets which aid the disorganised modernist to “look on the bright side”.

I’m the emotionally charged customer disappointed with all that medical science has offered looking for to make a small long-term investment in a health fund which develops the alternative treatment sector.

I’m the worker whose bright ideas come back only to rupture the delicate tissue of his anal canal.

I’m a tumour controversially removed from the lung of an unborn child.

Anonymous

24 year old, male heroin addict

sourced from CJ Society, Canberra