Thistle funnel breath
A cellular anorexia,
Squelched like Boa-meat
Air betrays its own nature
To boast rotund.
And then the smooth slide
Or gallop, into the gut.
Pelunk.
Stirred like hot mash
Witches cauldron gurgling
Day old leftovers, hot air
Propelling bumper-car romance
With intestinal fervency
Appendages clasp accidents
Rolling them into balls.
Salivate. Mothball smells from
Baby socks. These don’t come
Off easily.
Singles pining for a
Similar constriction.
Sudden rising of bile plume.
Expanding air to invade every
Fleshy Hiroshima. Then the
Release. Snake skin
Peeling back for freedom
All shapes evaporate
To muster
This gush, this suffocation
This edifying upward drift
Of my bell-jar asphyxiation.
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