You bring me good news from the clinic,
Whipping off your silk scarf, exhibiting the *******
Mummy-cloths, smiling: I'm all right.
When I was nine, a lime-green anesthetist
Fed me banana-gas through a frog mask.  The nauseous vault
Boomed with bad dreams and the Jovian voices of surgeons.
Then mother swam up, holding a tin basin.
O I was sick.

They've changed all that.  Traveling
**** as Cleopatra in my well-boiled hospital shift,
Fizzy with sedatives and unusually humorous,
I roll to an anteroom where a kind man
Fists my fingers for me.  He makes me feel something precious
Is leaking from the finger-vents.  At the count of two,
Darkness wipes me out like chalk on a blackboard. . .
I don't know a thing.

For five days I lie in secret,
Tapped like a cask, the years draining into my pillow.
Even my best friend thinks I'm in the country.
Skin doesn't have roots, it peels away easy as paper.
When I grin, the stitches tauten.  I grow backward.  I'm twenty,
Broody and in long skirts on my first husband's sofa, my fingers
Buried in the lambswool of the dead poodle;
I hadn't a cat yet.

Now she's done for, the dewlapped lady
I watched settle, line by line, in my mirror—
Old sock-face, sagged on a darning egg.
They've trapped her in some laboratory jar.
Let her die there, or wither incessantly for the next fifty years,
Nodding and rocking and ******* her thin hair.
Mother to myself, I wake swaddled in gauze,
Pink and smooth as a baby.

I know your pain,
They broke my bones and divided me.
Where have you been?
It’s been 19 years of this ****** mess.
This is your mother asleep at the wheel, This is your brothers blood in the backseat
When everything you love only seems like something you feel.

Sacred sediment wrapped in white gold.
Shiny as god’s revolver but twice as cold.
What you hear is all Casablanca and she’s shivering cold.
They took your teeth, fragments of what they sold.

Take these seams from me.
Split them down these American IV dreams.
Take these seams from me.
Take these two lips, cut me clean and free.

She put me out like a cigarette.
Burned at both ends.
And my history to the anesthetist
and my body to surgeons

Take these words from me.
These cystic fibrosis regimes.
Take these words from me.
Light blue collar worker bees.

- MW

I know your pain,
They broke my bones and divided me.
Where have you been?
It’s been 19 years of this ****** mess.
This is your mother asleep at the wheel, This is your brothers blood in the backseat
When everything you love only seems like something you feel.

Sacred sediment wrapped in white gold.
Shiny as god’s revolver but twice as cold.
What you hear is all Casablanca and she’s shivering cold.
They took your teeth, fragments of what they sold.

Take these seams from me.
Split them down these American IV dreams.
Take these seams from me.
Take these two lips, cut me clean and free.

She put me out like a cigarette.
Burned at both ends.
And my history to the anesthetist
and my body to surgeons

Take these words from me.
These cystic fibrosis regimes.
Take these words from me.
Light blue collar worker bees.

- MW

/i tend to don sunglasses,
encompassing the night...

never the aggravated
             youth,
as made pardonable...
into a circumstance
        of hardly gagging for death:


double whammy,
to cirumstance mortality:
     you engage with
teenagers,
     and you're not experienced
to deal wiht them...

and then you metion:
           a death wish...
and they run away,
given the fact that you've
bought them an excess of
$6 worth of *****?

                now you're *******
me off pdf. contra jpeg.
formatting!
                no, seriously!
there's an actual reason
why, to the 20th century
writers will never, ever,
become "too" apparent...  

    these ******* never had
to deal with clinical
insomnia?
     the merger of
dreams, thoughts,
and death,
  suddenly made synonymous
with a thesaurus
scrutiny...

                 i died
to the account of thrice...
what little you do will do
just as little for
me to encompass
understanding the random,
or the average....
  
get my drift?!

    no?!
                güt!

            auch nein unß
                sich kümmern!
                        gegeben dies!

seems i was quiet
the effective / necessary
                        cognitive artefact...
more the titilating abel,
rather than the baß(e)-on cain
in terms of employment...

                the ******-sort...
           wizard-quasi...
                         a major projection
of a HA..
                  a necro-"philia"
   assertetive of one only being
able to bias eating pork,
having stomached
   ingesting
                 the leeches
and clinging artefacts
                   of Poseidon's
domain!
          
                           well ****, me!

the bellitling surmount
that people could attest to!
and there they go,
off, on their own ownership
off on a tangent,
  like exhibiting the character
of a vector...
          well i didn't
go to university to study
psyche, that's for sure...

   i was about to embark
on sustaining pop culture
by rekindling the imitation
ending in the sigma that
became: toothpaste / shampoo...

shame a sense of
romance strated to wrestle with me...
teasing Cain...
    i'd still overt:
in escaping the night
with exercising a Plantagenet
"right" of utilising
      sunglasses... esp. inclusive
of doing so, by the "consequence"
of experiencing the night...
          
    i solved one teenager confrontation
by telling them:
  you call your uncle, sure...
problem is... you see...
          i have a... death wish:
******* could out-run usain bolt...
quicker than an *******!
shame that's not even
   moderately corrective
   of the life i inhibit...
                  rather than fake:
in the cruel reality of having to inhabit,
   ex omni exemplum: quare ipsum?
if this is bad latin,
then i certaily shouldn't have
asked my anesthetist prior to being
admistered to the hands of a german "butcher"
pulling my wisdom teeth out:
                     quo vadis?
long sleep, within the confines
of an anesthetic: requires,
                       this simple question'
death-anticipatory... just in case
someone forgot the ontology of mortality;
thank-**** death being
                     hardly "the" surprise!