The little silver fish
Scatter like shrapnel
As I plunge upward
From the black underworld.
The green waves break from my sides
As I roll up, forced by my season,
And before the tenth second
I can feel my own heat -
The wind can never cool as oceans do.
My skin has sweated into agony.
The turmoil of my intestines
Bloats out against my skin.
I'm too sick to struggle - I hang
In the thermals of pain,
Screaming against the slow, slow, slow
Rise toward descent.
And the madness of my pain
Seems to have infected everything -
Cities hack each other into blood;
Ships sink in firestorm; armies
Flail with sticks and crutches;
Obesity staggers toward coronary
Down the streets of starvation.