A Silverfish Named Desire

He's ramming her loudly again.
The walls are thin. My body is desolate.
A silverfish darts across the floor. A derelict offers a plate of rancid snails
as my starved stomach roars with toxic grinding blood.
Vision of tepid and effortless fornicators every house along this street
squirming for pleasure with clammy skin.
Creeping insects baiting with swamplike sex.

I grab my Oxford Bible,
squash that filthy silverfish
and go to the bathroom to see myself in the mirror.
This whiskers condition that grows on the face --
bloody boils will explode when they're shaved.
My beard's grown thick like Noah or Abraham
Grown ugly. Grown ancient. More ancient. More ugly.

Stella in the chair with clipped ears,
in the itchy asbestos dress,
porking the President's peers.
Vision of a fat woman sitting on the President's face.
Sweat-salty. Piss-salty. More ugly. More ancient.
Stella's ear-clippings all kept in a bowl
for snacks.

Fear of fallen beard clippings.
Traces of blood from ugly boils.
I will shave this off.
I hear Stella whimpering orgasms next door
and gash my face with the dull razor.
I crush another silverfish in the sink, bare-palmed.
Jagged cut. Twitching bug.

Blood down the drain.