You’re talking again, words like flies
buzzing around a pile of horse shit.

Something about ambition, about climbing,
about fitting in, about being… you.
Christ. The thought makes my stomach churn,
like bad milk and a gas station burrito.

Why the hell would I give a damn
what crawls around in that cluttered head of yours?
Your polished shoes, your crisp white shirt,
your desperate need for applause.

I’d rather drink wood chips in a back alley,
argue with a cockroach about the meaning of life,
than spend one goddamn minute
trying to mirror your pathetic striving.

You think I want your corner office?
Your plastic smile? Your empty, echoing nights?
I’d rather be a bum on Bangla,
sleeping under a bridge, bathed in neon light.

So keep your opinions, your judgments,
your carefully constructed little world.
I’ll take the gutter, the grime, the glorious mess,
because at least it’s mine, and it’s not… you.

Just another buzzing fly,
another speck of dust in the grand, indifferent scheme.
I’m just trying to find a clean ashtray
and another goddamn roll.

Megan Seiter.

painting