Lanky lizards
and crusty cockroaches
are crawling in the space
between my skin and the atmosphere.
Generated by the generator
he installed just below my naval:
On-fire, they are;
Sharp, they become;
Jagged, they march.
Over and over,
slower and slower,
deeper and deeper--
A never-ending game
of ring around the rosie
I don't want to play anymore.