The sound of vomiting
to my ears like singing
now i am beginning to become erect
with illness i am obsessed
in the beds of the fallen i rest
a fixation amplified the smell
here is what
i like best feverishly vombing the buckets of waste
wrapping myself in the filth-ridden sheets
raping the shells of the comatose
to fulfill my needs
photographing bedsores cultured by my sick neglect
it‘s more than a job it‘s a love for me
to walk this close with death
when you hear a flat line you know surely i‘ll be near
to when the reaper‘s sickle is drawn
i am ever aware
i wish i could pull these strings
in death there are finer things
malpractice forever be my bitter name
how quickly life
does fade away
but a flip of the river mans coin
could send you screaming to your grave
grief stricken family watches
on ceaseless prayers for an only son
"I‘m afraid that nothing can be done"
the moment has finally come the wrath
of a god exemplified to the pearly gates
he‘ll soon arrive to leave
here his husk in this room of white
i‘m quivering at thought pull the plug
i‘m begging you take the ride to the cold
and blue the reapers yellowed
lichen fingers aims ever so true
the orgins of disease to be witnessed
in my dreams the flooding of the blackest blood to
quence my fetid needs