Bad Eggs

When I was a child I once went

outside: with an egg in one hand,

eggshells in the other, to stand,

hiding in a cool shade, content.

Squeezing shells, until they relent,

empty shell crumbled first in tanned

fist. Then the fresh egg popped, yolk ran

down my arm in bloody descent.


No one wants to crumble like shells,

so we gorge ourselves on ourselves:

emptiness. Filled with empty vice

but drink and drugs and sex can smell

like sulfuric eggs bought in twelves.

We stink, but won’t break. This will suffice.



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