The room was antiseptic and hideously

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.