Sick (Incomplete)

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.