Doing a surrogacy for my gap year.
Bile in my stomach –
I name thee menace.
I’m sure it’s not gestating but then it consumes me.
Slain but ambulatory, crawling on breeze.
Perhaps if I sneeze hard enough I can lose my mind?
It should not be mine.
I’d much rather have yours – to start.
I want to eat your cause, your heart.
I want to eat your soul, your eyesight.
Play your role, so we should unite.
This is all for the babe, assuredly.
Retain your appendages, this is art not savagery.
We live each season to season our selves.
Spring a seasoned singer. Summer swimmer, autumn aggravates.
Winter whittles things that whither, never really carried weight.
Flavour ridden; am I to be eaten dead or alive.
Open up wide, I’ll shovel my self inside.
‘Not to Be Eaten Whole’, but by now I’m more like holey cheese.
‘To Forgo Disclaimer’: scour space-time for my crumbs that have always been flaking off and re-forge me by the template of our species.
See, I’m flaky now.
I’m shaking now. See.
I’ll lie for a rhyme for no rhyme or reason, but to have your sight. See.
No message like Banksy.
This is not angst, see.
No more than we are wounded by dead skin or dead kin. Understand?
The dead – ‘pass on’ allegedly, but not me.
I: be – ambulatory.
Weather the street with heavy feet.
It’s raining babies and bile.
I’m starting to wane.
I suppose, in aim to sustain; I’ll just keep eating on my stomach pain.