Ill

I’ve got frogs’ legs pumping their way

out of my throat, and feel like truck-bait,

a sitting duck on the road, ready to be hit.

I’m neighing and whinnying because I can’t

seem to get past being a sinker,

hanging on the end of your transparent

fly-line, and now it’s called off, the curled cord

around my neck is last of my hang-ups.

 

I’ve got a fever and the only prescription

is for you to stay the fuck away from me.

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