Classic Poem

here & now.
dear doctor colon.

it lamely leaks this aching sore wounds thought & cripples up sleep.
wryjawed up the steep-spined stepped spikes of a a a stone-stiff neck the snapshot-window of our dearest door the door to sleep is shut by frost & fog now.

lo look idiosyncratic crystals circumcumulate into a miniature chandelier for the ballroom of my lower abdomen lo.
I hope to hell it smells to high heaven for I want God to know.

the existing key to things as is is a misfit.
but my mind meanders.
well now there.
our induration has begun to thaw & I think it looks like we've got that suppuration licked & the desquamation's scaling down very nicely & I can almost all but walk.
hey doc put me on a poster for St. Jude's day.
get me a new tooth.
appoint me to the chair of sp-sp-sp.
speech.

therapy.

I I well I just wonder why you hoard so many towels swabs & sponges in this constant gore booth the scream-permeated-curtained emergency kraal.
pyramidal hierarchies of towels on trays capture the flicking tail of my.
eye & don't think for a second I didn't for a second see that dead old lady down the ha hall.
as now wow you doctor dug digged my person's deepest-seated pus up in ingots from their divot-pocked pockets I called on God until at last as I copped a grip on the sweating table-pipes the hammock slacked & when you frowned down into my prep-scraped groin crotch I grinned giggled.
your killpain xylocaine is an oily & transparent lie the stinkish hurt is still killing.
me.

again I call on God O the words go up enough enough but all my imperfections must be being on my infected head at once all dancing on that has-been pin.
for mornings between mirror & egg I palpably balden.
mercy.
new moles appear for people to interpret.
item a Gemini whose moon's in Scorpio has a reversed big dipper on his left forearm.
so O.
O say scab-petalled alto-throated flower-mouth of me something.
something heavy with depth hanging on a glade of brass.
hypostatic pith of lesion.
is it perfume from a dressing that begets this grim digressing.

well now there.
the white towel lies deflowered limply folded on the grey tray.
a ubiloquent young tuning fork demurely tunes all the halls & corridors just before a woman robot's unadenoidal voice names names.
I think she has my number.

the things the instruments are laid out fang-fearful for the nerve-emergency.
the nurse's personality is Coolidge's restillborn mercy me ma.
hic est porcus.
see see where my blood streams in the fundament.
O negative O.

the death wish is the law of gravity.
aromatic gravity pulls the matched twin balls down toward the center of the hurting earth & there the midwife death wish welcomes them hel-lo.
on his iron horns' tips' own proper points.

the sane sun is a pig eating a snake me & bougie the burglar breaks & enters me me.
me mercy.
so God damn so may the mad moon's hoof crease-clip your capped head with hooks with scaling tools & crescent wrenches crawling percolated parasiting nightmares of klaxon-klieging spot-lit malpractice.
you leech-bled Washington you leech-bled Byron & now're leech-bleeding me me O doctor Hippocrates incarnadined in tooth & bill with blood of my blue-shielded blood & of my flesh flesh.

insanity my ass identity crisis hell.
& even chronic cureless epidemic tee-terminal polyhyperdiplomegametateragigaschizo para paranoia doubled & redoubled in razor-sharp spades when vulnerable that's easy that's nothing that I can take.
what I can't stand God & good my doctor is these real steel knives & wicks literally exercised in the secret precincts of my physical person's flesh.
not the symbolic but the actual.
ache.

I guess I owe a cock too.
okay so I owe.

I owe a cock & hang hereby my hernias in your weeping tree sincerely.