Go ahead and stuff that filth of yours
under your couch, out of sight
but close by, within reach
once you rearrange
all the furniture
to make it so.

Build a pretty box in which 
to stash it. Play pretty music
to cover the hammering
the sawing. Stain it
a rich mahogany. The hardware
gold, the lining green velvet;
look how that resets your filth
as a curious relic you keep to remind you
of what you are, although 
you never pull it out to admire
or shame yourself with it
unless there’s no one there to see.

There you are with your filth
all gussied up and well-hidden and nearby 
and look at all the other knick-knacks
you think make better sense for a world
you want to inhabit. You
have it all figured it out, you

well-adjusted fuck, don’t you?
At night, or sometimes
in bright daylight when you think
no one can tell what you are doing,
you crinkle
that handsome nose of yours
and delicately sniff the air;
is that a smile?