It's a thick blue
awning, sludge and
sap. Wax trudging and
churning
in my
bowels.

I lay in the
bed, like some
sort of fat cat --
just eaten my fair share
of mice.

Disgust and
green, bubonic and
glee, can I
smile? Can I dial?

Can I
laugh. I've gotten
off the phone with
the quack.

Medication so
raw and sore like
boils redder than
dawn and more,
chinese red and
yellow ochre,
feed me nausea,
until it's
over.