May Day of the Dead (redux)

I’m hot with fleas, gravid with scabies lice
I have a multitude of filo and corona
Viruses are best when deflected with oil
Impregnated chausibles or warm leatherette
On your burning flesh underneath your hair shirt
Wear your bird mask filled with with aromatic tips
Of posies juniper berries and popcorn jelly bellies…

I place the copper florins on your eyes
Penniless and you trimming your pencil
Thin mustache graying from so much vaginal
Yeast, so much discharge, so sebaceous 
Cyst of unknown origin, benign and sanguine 
Pluck that rosy orb of pleasure-pain…

Au bon cadavre exquis
Birdhouse and Bildungsroman fretful
Fret on the E flat note, on the plagued D train
Box-scarred, a doleful G man out of a botched 
C-section with a bloody Dial M for Murder mug…

These, and other afflictions, are yours for the chaining
Yourself to the balcony railing 16 floors up
(Mostly) out of the elements counting how many 
Filo and corona fit on the head of a pin…

And how many pins it takes to blow your mind
Ballooning and arcing on its drunk ecliptic
Across the darkening sky…

Go figure when the envoi misses the last train
On a line out of service to nowhere…

With perdition as its terminus…

What I’m Reading:

Can the bees be saved? How many ways can you say genocide? I don’t know.
I think you’re swell. I don’t know. I think you’ve killed me a few times.

— Hala Alyan / “Siri as Mother”