The Fluey Blues

I am much better now, but here is a miserable little piece I wrote during my feverish period a week or so ago.

My tongue is sprouting sickels

Harpooning in my cheek

Porous pus-filled horror of nose and mouth and guts

Why call them mine

These vacant body-lots now colonized

By busy viral lust

Nothing here familiar

Nothing to belong

Just ice and burn and scar.