Sickness (Sore Throat)

Discover a metal belt.

As thick as the plasmic form you were built upon.

As the orgo rust informs your skin to decay.

Your thraot as weak as plaster.

As broiled as cemented asphire.

Feel that joyous winds of juju oil and erotic wishes you were never born.

It aches to turn that self free nasty into the bed of soaked premises.

Of filthy rags with wiped coughes and bumpy hardened vomit.

The will is still like a dead roach.

That smell you get when its coming.

Its coming.

Its coming into your lungs to ravish.

To destroy.

To examine its punishment.

To fire the skin of pink washflowers with the oils of cells.

Let it revive.

Dont let it eat.

Starve your sickness to kill upon its dreadful father of the shade of blood.

Let it fell the resentment od scratch dust.

And pain nausea that contained warps of rum DNA

Feel yourself take over.

Fell yourself open the raw splits.

Feel yourself heal.

And the sickness die.