The Disease

Gallbladders
Nauseated with
Eyes glaring thousands
at every mote
in your Carbon Frame.

A sick-tearing
organ retch
To pull Suicide
inside.

"And I will heed
your cry with diligence,
my friend!"
Said The Revolver.

"I am at your Mercy."
Said the Temple.

I, I have been knighted
into the Court of of the Condemned,
Now a servant of
Our Lord and King Pariah.

To work, you must die to die
you must work.

Like a carburetor:
even after an atomic blast
or electromagnetic pulse.

Cassiopeia tempts from
the heavens and only from the
briefest, barest fiery tips of a
Mushroom Cloud
do I ever seem
to
glimpse that
shining field.

For no angel am I,
rather a crashing, celestial,
Satellite
burning
White-hell over the Great
Pacific Garbage Patch.

All steaming and hissing on impact,
tumbling slowly sinking
a black and wretched hunk of metal

Wishing for the fishes' touch;
the barnacles embrace.

(But I made a helluva splash though!)