Hammer's Touch

 
Monday arrives with a hammers touch,
ready to scorch this fair earth
in which I wallow on this dewy humid morn.
My mouth is dry as a litter box and
equally foul as I wash the night from my
tongue and gums and fall headlong into
the shower as the water boils at my awkward frame.
Unwilling to bend towards the light,
I mop, wash and dab at my pits
and cracks as I finger my memories
for pleasure and bark at the black thoughts
crowning my mood with a rack of poisonous thorns.
While every shallow echo of the weekend
comes roaring back in drips and drabs,
colored raw like steel, smelling much like
the cup of chew that just spilled on my
thighs, I empty my thoughts for all pagans
on this Godforsaken morn.