By Stella Ling
Cleaning the house with zeal of pornographic lust,
“Out, out damned spot!” was my credo against the dust.
I climbed bare-footed on top of washing machine
and waggling my tail, leaned over half-obscene
to smooch the back crevice, full of moldering socks and half-full tins,
out-dated cleansers, fallen bins. I stirred a big rod assiduously
ridiculous how religiously, all fell from the crack just near my ass,
where I could squeeze them from their virginal morass.
At my orgasmic peak, my knees went weak
as I deposited all into trash heap, and so self-satisfied,
I gave a groan of pleasure as if deified.
The earth moved beneath, as Hemingway hath sweared,
no earthly love could have evenly compared.
If cleaning house be convenient masturbation,
could love and trash be miscegenation?
I had dealt with filth and entrapment by stealth and unmaskment;
converted all that whorish litter
and actually come out a bit fitter.