Fatigue Empire

Food in the underworld, the Death
King
 
In his seedy, green nightgown
Holding up flowers.
 
The warden of the underworld
In her plastic, pink
 
Wheelchair
Serving silver trays of
 
Shit and death and black
Gelatinous.
 
Birth, the music
Reminds me and
 
Will not stop
When I turn it off,
 
A warped music box
Trapped inside.
 
I repeat what I cannot bear:
Chronic repetition.
 
This poem is its own
Language.
 
It marks the mind
Like a missing memory
 
Marks the body. Then it
Changes, makes it invisible.
 
Back form the edge of what
Becomes.