kafkaesque worries

my eyes opened
of their own
volition at three
i did my best
to lasso sleep
but that ship
had long sailed
and my bladder
decided to
insert itself
into the conversation
so i shuffled
sullen and slow
down the hall
the dim blue
glow of the bowl
guided me as i
tried to convince
myself that sleep
would be a good
next step to pursue
a faint movement
caught my eyes
at the bottom
of the bathtub
twitching legs
attached to a
giant overturned
roach beckoned
my heart seized
and i called out
“gregor, is that you?”
over the thunder
of urine hitting
the pale blue water
it did not answer
thankfully that
and i pondered
the logistics of
heaving it into
the toilet in need
of a thorough flush
i lifted it
a toilet paper
funeral shroud
jittering madly
straining at
the sheer size
of the insect
wondering where
it came from
how it ended up
at the bottom
of the bathtub
the loud thump
possibly what
had torn me from
the bosom of sleep
considering if
the damnedable
lost soul would
even go down
the swirling drain
was this a dream
the giant roach
a symbol of doom
an omen meant to
guide me to my
singular purpose
i couldn’t say
it didn’t seem
to matter much
as the water was
displaced by the
immense girth and
i pushed the lever
hoping the gates
to valhalla were
open to warriors
capable of vanquishing
monstrous fiends

moments later
i lay in bed with
an urge to urinate
even though i was
certain i just had
the clock read four
and i did not
beleive it had taken
an hour to remove
my new nemesis
from the mortal coil
had i read too much
kafka before sleeping
dreamt an insolence
of grotesqueries
as my bladder rang
the bells to waken
was this a case of
me flushing some
monstrous part of
my broken mind
the twitching legs
merely representations
of a willingness
to keep going
against the struggle
or was there
really a mammoth
cockroach jerking
madly in the tub
i am still not sure
like many things
i filed it away
under uncertainties
of a world of chaos
soon to be forgotten
flushed from my head
to be replaced by
the next existential
terror of dream
but my arm is sore
as if i threw a
shot put down the field
and there is a slight
delineation in the
formed plastic of
textured tub bottom
i worry it isn’t dead
waiting just around
the bend in the pipes
to strike back when
i least expect it
madness sprinkled
with dissociation
and a newborn fear
of football sized bugs
seeking their revenge
wrap me up tightly
as i jump at every
shadow in my periphery

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