the pain is a thick mess of sensations
of tangled images of family of sensory data
all focused into a single beat through the skull
it is counter-intuitively nexus of one thing
where there are many things—seems
like ghosts with glass hammers
the analgesics have taken it out too
I have spots and bad skin from the rip
of nutrients as though I am pregnant
with something a fetch a thing unwanted
all this from the luxator and elevator
an unshaven man with a strong arm
in my mouth.I shouldn't complain it is
only the wailing of small birds imagine
six hundred years ago before opioids
what is it with me that I must live
like a mediaeval peasant when all around
people bask in hot-bubbling creamy baths
and communicate in themes of light
it is only the internet that separates me
from the quartz, the feldspar, the mica
really, only that/this/this/that/shove
mice and rats yellow of their tongue
so soft and hard the flinching waybells
.
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