163. Sick

Throbbing head
A dull hammer-tap 
On the anvil of the skull
Crown of thorns

​Home, then
To my beloved
Wet damp sheets of 
White linen spread
Step by step
She cums to meet my
Weary soul
Excrement of the dick
The body is a temple
Mine’s a ruin
​No more pungent leaf
No more blue smoke curling
Choking the breath
I must be sound
Sound of limb
Clear of mind
​The glowing screen
Pulling my mind into the ether
Hours dissolved in electric void
Enough of the luminous theatre
I must walk in the air of the world
Lest I vanish into the wires entirely

​


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