Fevers
Fevers! You
are a paralysis! Lying on a languid mattress, strayed as idle hours at an opium
den..... & the fates eye has withdrawn in a prosaic fashion. For in her
womb there was a fear of birth, but that taunting ghost of arousal lingers...
Like the baritone croak of a toad belching bubbles of black liquor & these
nostrils drip... For theirs lies some aches a round of poison can't pause. So
strap on a gas mask to purge a clear channel of breath. Longing for the
nostalgia of that light spring air sequestered in a monastery by the closed
shutters of winters brittle bones, & only a sober gentleman could deduce
such a string of cowards, crooks, & tragedies, but that wouldn't happen to
be this funny fellow. For notes of madness melt this mirage of modesty! For the
touch of sensation is a pendulum swaying from the cool brush of elation to a
caress coarse with thorns, & quietly I whisper to these numbed naked
nerves... Where am I?! Sweat... Shivering fevers, this news trembles in my
shaken gut... Sick?!
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