A fellow writer dared me to write something “ugly.” This is the closest I would go.
Cold white sober enamel
Scatters light, cleanly.
The glaring concaveness of the bowl
Is a reckless skate park half-pipe
Rising up, then down and up, then down,
Dashing its brains against the sides.
Cold white sober tiles
Under your palms, for a flush-hot face
To press shame into iron-like,
A flat and clean, mistaken resting place
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