Reincarnation

I am my own son, born daily
to the memory
of the day before.

I smack my arse for signs of life,
clean my teeth,
peel back lips.

Brushing new born blood
to porcelain white.
I am my own son.

I may well kill today,
a spider on the rug,
a commuter on the train.

I contemplate a whistle.
Blood slides clockwise
down the drain.

See what I found, I almost missed this little star!

Love 1st and 2nd stanzas. Fourth is brilliant, with "the commuter on the train" *gulp*

I thought things go counterclockwise in the Northern Hemisphere. At least that's how I imagine tmy screwdriver if I swirl my glass. Clink! x