Succulent succubus covered in grime
Telling me how to cover their tracks
Selling information best left to pantomime,
I awaken in a field of slivered second thoughts.
I lightly suggest that it’s merely racist,
Maybe just a hint of fascist
To uncover all my secrets with a stethoscope
Skipping in and out of
An undulating wrist
I don’t want to be known
As the man not a man not a man
Without a pulse/pulse…
Supplemented with a slow degradation
That I’m supposed to accept
These are the carnivorous pleadings
Of a chastised man
Cleft lip, black lung,
Silver tongue, pink heart,
Only healthy, healthy! Healthy!
For the cameraman in the back.
Stand back, there is no stampede.
We are the turbulence.
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