Exterminator
There are heads in which cockroaches live.
They live crooked, crawl through thoughts,
survive through that stiff, viscous mass
of foul-mouthed, swollen, spread hatred.
You can almost hear them when someone says bad words
talk, you sometimes see them as you embarrassed
open the newspaper again, they shoot in the corners
away from houses where crooked people live.
They eat away at our standards. Gnawing unnoticed
to our dreams. Nestle too easily
in our voice. Don’t bury yourself any longer
in your own body, don’t be silent when asked,
don’t wait for someone else to call the exterminator.