There is something in the corner of my room,
Made of gristle and teeth.
In the summer it
Attracts flies.
I can ignore it
Most of the time.
Sometimes
When I lie awake,
Sweating opium,
It talks to me.
It always asks me the same thing.
But I can ignore it.
Most of the time
I can stay out of my room,
And I can keep the thing quiet
As long as nobody opens the door.
I can get it to leave me alone
Most of the time.
But when
The smoke and needles stop working
I am dragged into that place
Filled with flies and the stench
Of rotting meat.
It always asks me the same thing.
It silently demands
A reply.
And I can tell it
That my answer is
No
Most of the time.