Where Trains Pass

So I was thinking about words again
as I do upon occasion,
when the tap's running
and the photographs of us
degenerate into crumpled up
faceless flash-banged porridges.

I eat from those stained bowls,
you know - I don't fare well when
there's too much grime on the counters
and too much steam on the windows
but my lens keep focusing in and out
on our visages, somehow battered
by the fact that it's been too long since
we even considered the stuff under
our fingernails -
times have gone, oui,
thumping's a past tense
and movie reels have stretched out
the distance between your digits and
my colon,


too long,
may I miss my mister man?
my mystery monk mauled American?
masculine meat... met
menstrual fuckitall

and the shot glasses still seem to smoke 
when the sunlight catapults through the windows
on days like these,
when I scavenge from the cupboards,
when my recycling bin is full of
cardboard cut-outs and supplement containers.
I think there has to be a point,
where you can press 4 once
2 once
and 9 three times
before you consider that
I'm still here, in your kitchen,
waiting for you to come home.