Malady

The heavy lead blocks Feeling completely spavined Ineluctable Zymotic gulf like nihilism Hollow skull starved Explodes wherein of itself The wells enlarge And vomit happy Under sunken stars As Baryshnikov they Perform deep under laps Enveloped lightly and kingdom come Pallid as an interwar prostitute The ball in the stomach floating like a foetus Intense maladies and ulcer-bile-black night skies Cross-hair river bed You could chase me if you I know where the gunshots fire I know all the exits Brechtian how easy into slumbers A real face to death is an occasional depression