Fatigue Empire

Food in the underworld, the Death King In his seedy, green nightgown Holding up flowers. The warden of the underworld In her plastic, pink Wheelchair Serving silver trays of Shit and death and black Gelatinous. Birth, the music Reminds me and Will not stop When I turn it off, A warped music box Trapped inside. I repeat what I cannot bear: Chronic repetition. This poem is its own Language. It marks the mind Like a missing memory Marks the body. Then it Changes, makes it invisible. Back form the edge of what Becomes.