Crisp grease

I’m not a white head spot popping kind of guy.
Puss has never been my game.
But squeezing the black heads on my nose
until a family of tiny worms wiggle their way free
totally hypnotises me. I wonder what they used to be.
Crisp grease? Filthy London air?
A build up of horrid catchy songs
grooving out for another dance?
If I could climb in my pores and have
a nose around, I would. Just to see why
all the grime is so desperate to stay inside me.

© Carl Burkitt 2020

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