Shake the disease



Feeling poorly (as my mother used to say)



Every joint and muscle in my body


Like old age stealing in with the night

Rhythmic throbs from deep beneath my skin

Send dispatches from the front lines

Of a losing battle

Hot blades jab at throat and brain

In tight relentless rotations

And all the while my mind

Plays spirals of thought in

Snatches of songs and fragments of dreams


This is what sleep looks like

It isn’t pretty

Soaked and trembling in twisted sheets

Longing for her cool touch

Or a bullet.








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