I freak with frisson
when I focus vision
and pore o’er porcelain’s corruption.
Its imperfection’s
giving me depression.
What ’n awful, rotten scene.

Worse than a bowl
that’s had no role
of being neat and clean and’s seeming quite obscene.
To be really blunt,
it is an affront.
Virid dribs and drabs in the place
where I’d scour my face; now I cower.
I’m revulsed at the greasy green grime.

More than a measure of orbs displeasure
assaults the vaults where my eyes shine.

I want to roll
out of this hole
that has spurned neat and clean; I too now have turned green.
But out I won’t rush;
I will grab a brush,
scrub and scour till I erase
the ugly vision
that’s causing the frisson.

Surface was stippled as a geek’s face…
like a pustulous Pointillism
by a zip-popping Seurat.

I near my goal;
I’m on a roll.
I’ve got it nearly clean, returned to white from green.
I’m as pleased as punch
when I’m finally done,
’cause I’ve spick’d this scabrous disgrace.