Spotlight burns the skin: like fire beneath a cauldron
it sends it sizzling, spitting out flailing utterances,
bleeding out cold-sweat condensation and as
the throat becomes narrow as a straw,
breathing is weight-lifting, swallowing is trying to
suck up a rock-hard milkshake and
though unsuccessful, still delivers to the brain
that all-so-familiar dull and agonizing ache.
Interior twisting now, a tangled knot in the gut
and a return to the fetal, wrapping around a central rhythm
aggressively accelerating, like its
ready to burst and break free
like a bottled and blood-curdling scream.
An aroma like a rotting corpse, a ghastly vapor,
a venomous fog so potent you can taste it
enshrouds and imbues this withering body,
permeating its every pore and as
the quivering escalates into violent convulsions --
these jagged motions, almost mechanical,
more reflexive than signs of life --
a fluid bubbles up the throat like a bitter, acidic poison,
the tongue left numb, flaccid and utterly useless
behind a wall of clenched and chattering teeth.
Coiling around the forehead, neck and chest
like a serpent, a grip with ever-whitening knuckles,
the malevolent mist breeds building pressure
and the melody of the body's defeat, complimented
by a chorus of convulsions, comes in a cacophony of
snapped twigs, a bite into an apple,
like a crack of lightning muffled by
the chilled and slimy skin of this
stiffening corporeal frame,
now a psycho-spiritual cage,
where the dying inside forever remains a verb,
a congregation of death throes climaxing into
just another violent, torturous spasm,
for to simply end the process
as a noun, as an end, as a final destination,
would be far too damned merciful.
it sends it sizzling, spitting out flailing utterances,
bleeding out cold-sweat condensation and as
the throat becomes narrow as a straw,
breathing is weight-lifting, swallowing is trying to
suck up a rock-hard milkshake and
though unsuccessful, still delivers to the brain
that all-so-familiar dull and agonizing ache.
Interior twisting now, a tangled knot in the gut
and a return to the fetal, wrapping around a central rhythm
aggressively accelerating, like its
ready to burst and break free
like a bottled and blood-curdling scream.
An aroma like a rotting corpse, a ghastly vapor,
a venomous fog so potent you can taste it
enshrouds and imbues this withering body,
permeating its every pore and as
the quivering escalates into violent convulsions --
these jagged motions, almost mechanical,
more reflexive than signs of life --
a fluid bubbles up the throat like a bitter, acidic poison,
the tongue left numb, flaccid and utterly useless
behind a wall of clenched and chattering teeth.
Coiling around the forehead, neck and chest
like a serpent, a grip with ever-whitening knuckles,
the malevolent mist breeds building pressure
and the melody of the body's defeat, complimented
by a chorus of convulsions, comes in a cacophony of
snapped twigs, a bite into an apple,
like a crack of lightning muffled by
the chilled and slimy skin of this
stiffening corporeal frame,
now a psycho-spiritual cage,
where the dying inside forever remains a verb,
a congregation of death throes climaxing into
just another violent, torturous spasm,
for to simply end the process
as a noun, as an end, as a final destination,
would be far too damned merciful.
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