Infirmary
Obvious in cold slab afternoon thickness.
They could’ve opened a coffee shop
With all the decaffeinated stomach acid
Pumped from the contents of my insides
(Devil’s Mocha with Spicy Soy)
I told the waiting green country peach,
“I do not think I want my supper meal,
My stomach feels queer and I do not want
To eat at all.”
Mmm! Sweet Georgia! How I regret my refusal
Of falling down in soft tongue juice
Without a sound to swallow!
Soft soled steps down the hall.
Hygenic clicking pens and terribly
Impersonal —
The squeaking wheels below my head
Sound of squeaking wheels below my head
‘Cause poetic verse like, “a shrieking woman’s bowels”
Cannot follow a sound,
To the place I am going.
Soft soled shoe man pushed a button,
And inside a wall a voice cried,
To where all the little stillborn cretins
Of tomorrow lie.
A creature burning with flickering hair
Reached out and said, “There will be toast,
And tea for you, and junket by and by.”
I thanked her with a sweet reply,
And you know?
Fire tastes like peppermint,
Cool flavored and milk thin.
