The pills are worms

lining the casket like calligraphy, opening up the body

like a repenting tulip. The bed is a moth racing cheeks

like a crator cradling an aeroplane with sand bashed on light;

the space is cut,

orange

and ripe.

 

With head of bull growing inside out and arms and legs

of china lambs, the pisces

groans in liquid skin, cursing gravity

for its strong embrace,

wrongly reassuring retirement as an epidural.

 

 Movements bully, the savage brutes,

and irsies flash white for

a cool hand to

soothe

kubla kahn,

and envelope the epileptic night.

 

                                         (not that great but I am poorly!!!...)