here he is
the annihilation of fathers …

here he is

a sick man among sick men
lined up to do battle with big guns
a stockpile of syringes
against an army of bedsores
a drip-feed against tumours
& every morning armed with a marmelade
sandwich       crusts cut off       against his own
self-consuming body

his muscles shrinking
his flesh falling away
the machines whirring

for weeks now
lying at his post       looking at the moon
sword above his skull       licking at skin &
bone       more pain here
numbness down there
staring       shooting tears back into his eyes
everything half used-up

his muscles shrinking
his flesh falling away
the machines whirring

 

the annihilation of fathers
or
shit scared to answer the phone

oh shit       omigod
his blanketed eyes scrabbling for images on the board
making still-lifes from feeder-cups and piss-bottles
bleeding       bleeding on rubber sheets
tugging away at his white harness
so hard to keep clean       she says
a glitch in the body
minced gut disclosing itself
seems “the worst will soon be over       soon with eyes
covered & bound feet”

hurry to bread the wound       grub for the worms
& that’s a revelation       a clumpish       “error”
the stuffed skin of a man like nothing so much as
the wurst of memory
“won’t be long before you’re stuffing me in there”