Ever since bumpy died
you’ve had this thing —
repetition compulsion.
You’re quite good at it,
could be a professional, in fact
delivering babies
as W.C.W did it
Well beyond phlebotomist,
psychiatric nurse,
or therapist, in fact
I want to know what death is, too
Slipped on a banana peel,
I repeat too,
compulsively
You have this thing with
repetition compulsion,
Before I slap the stars out of place.
Ugly bastards!
I cry, blowing my trumpet of burnt roses,
before sitting down in my finest wears
to eat sin like a bloated corpse,
below a half-mast of agony.
I dread the sun which turns in my skull
even when I’m asleep,