Take stock of your life, its in piles across the floor.

The florescent hues of the fades that melt into the style that exudes doesn’t give a fuck.

The floral patterns and paisleys hold a strong presence with their rolls up sleeves and crinkled collars.

Trying to convey a story about where they haven’t been. 

Worn for days on end, no sign of stopping, for time never waited for things to occur, so the shirt will be worn so long as the light can’t see the sordid story they might wish to tell.

Oh don’t even get started on the trousers seeing as napkins no not a place when a thigh exists for the milkshake residue left from getting that milkshake too large to finish, but something needed resolution.

They lay there like a series of bodies too wasted to move, pockets filled with moist memories of not remembering what was said.

So laced with needing to forget they act as the home for not needing to exist, cause pockets can hold things indefinitely.

The piles of unmentionables and undergarments too risque, still in pink, purple and paisley, no, never to embarrassed for that.

These were the things that needed cleansing seeing as they’d spent too long always.

Too far from the cooling jet streams of the Raytheon washing machines built from the factories of bombs and ICBM’s, and looking like silos for these weapons of mass dirt ablutions. 

They’re all sorted, piled in order of purpose and neatly dumped into the bag, with its elastic band holding the roundness of itself at bay by the pants stacked to straighten the stay.

These are the cloths to take, to absolve them of their sins, as they are taken down the stairs and into the day.
They hold tight as they know they are about to be washed of this wickedness they did not choose.

They did not asked to partake in the ritualistic desensitization.

They did not choose not to be wholly conscious of the good and overly analytical of the bad as to make choices to sedate only the momentary plane of existence while trying to extrapolate how to deal with the rest of it.

Nah, they were along for the ride, what choice could they make, partners in crime nonetheless, the wash will forgive most for their mistakes.

Much like Comstock’s choice, to accept repentance or pretend to be except from damnation, there is evil in neither just regret that hindsight hadn’t come far sooner, reminding the madness its not at all that special. That even a little is too much to to know what everything will become.

But they’ll be forgiven, the soap and suds that’s what they’ll shun.

Load up the car, trunk too small, so stick’em in the back.

The detergents a mother fucker so keep that up front.

Well, that was easy…