Pisspot

This is a rough draft of the beginning of a poem that I've been working on for a while now. I'm posting it now out of curiosity really to see if anyone has any thoughts about it. Almost all of this came out in one vomity rush one night and I typed it up the next day. I'm not writing it in an order that is linear but just when a particular stream of ideas appear, so what I've written so far is fragmented and disjointed.

i.

Pisspot, pisspot.

Dead, dead, dead?

Ground under, bound under,

Down under now.

Buried beneath the generated filth of

countless accumulations,

not even just figures in an account book,

shitting out surplus until

surplus to requirements.

 

Great, pointless monuments,

palaces and cities, built from

forgotten, nameless bones,

stuck together with sweat and blood;

only named for others.

Generations begat, beget, begot, forgot,

Not remembered in dispatches or

in scrolls or on stone or in books,

But coalesce collectively in consciousness,

Growing, waiting, toad-like.