Stink

by Aidan Andrew Dun

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You know
that stink
which builds up
in the overtired
dimlit kitchen
late at night

Compound of
onion-skin
old sour rice
steaming cocktail
of odours on
nasal blitzkrieg

Palpable wall
of nastiness
naked health-hazard
negative testament
to unstoppable
appetites and cravings

And you know that
hopeless underpowered
receptacle, the
carrier-bag, always
split down one side
overflowing

Offensive item
propped against
the broom-cupboard
saying: ‘You’re stuck
with me, sunshine
it’s very cold out there!’

You think: ‘It’s too
much! Can’t sleep
in this place:
stink percolating
through like the
flatulence of Satan.’

And you fumble
sleepily with
the door and
go down, glad to face
the cold night-wind
and the stars

Swinging the bag
for joy and
planning your dreams.
Well, the other night
my soul left
the house

Holding my body
like a rubbish-stuffed
plastic-bag
dancing for joy
and breathing the
silver-blue air.






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