oh and I’m away with it now.
picked up and kicked in right
when I didn’t expect it. took
me by the throat. and I’m
racing and writhing and folding
now. it outpaces me, makes
me breathless; I am at the end
of breath. I am a thousand
moving parts. I wanted you to
make me sick and now in a
state not far from delirious I
want more sickness. coming
through my windpipe, reaching
outwards, twisting as it goes.
(and it goes, and it goes)
outwards – turns in my blood.
scratching through skin,
seeking chemicals, feeling
opaque, feeling that light
gets trapped and cannot
escape, feeling that I love the
sickness, love the sickness;
sweats and pulses, moving
towards a pleasure only
secondary to death, heats
my bones up, takes my breath.

Labels: poetry