Sick or condiments, please pass the Butter Mountain
Rickets six dissonant passenger viruses raise eyes
one more occasional gasp of sight, a deep green bile
a poem drains mossy fields into thick hedgerows, health
corpuscular hedge funds fulfil haemophilic urges
phototropic, he ejaculates, illness in heads distend
shiver, breath tears build veins leafed & cancerous
hash & clump the green wood inks out tilts of pelt
cilia’s lilt unapparent, white milk corners, copses
Munchausen’s minus sympathetic thrash sores,
there’s no feigning shitting the bed and that’s not
real scent of pine your spraying this headache
treatment shows a discrete trend to kill cats dead
gather in the slender crop avaricious abattoir sure
garlic will cure it & his dutiful drip was putrid
his medical clamp bore lead on my trill finger
& tongue after all its cheaper && there’s a stone in my core & I’m love sick all over
you again but blood pressure reads negative, pallets
so you better accept it for there’s certainty in maths
submersions and sewers commit slow nitrogen narcosis
under baths ‘O’ its good for both of us, get ill
with me, I’ll slide in behind so there’s an absence
romance in sixty watt mirrors tiled &wrong to use
a family members funeral six times as certified
excuse? ‘O’ come gorge on the condiments and make sick.