New Flat Fucking pipes. I am staring at a wall ridden with winking cloacas. Everything from Bach to the bird-box stinks in the sluckering glop. A filthy scrummage of pipes and discharge threatens the throat. My bradawled nostril shuttles between pensioner’s crap and the croup of rooms. I think of the terrible food endured as a child. The flinching face. My mother like a spouted gargoyle and the plate pumping like an infected pap. This place is good for absolutely nothing only the poetry I’ve worked hard to avoid. Fuck it. The old fucker over the way snores like an ejaculating ghat. Kevin Cahill If you have any comments on this poem, Kevin Cahill would like to hear from you.