nausea

P V C Pipe on my head
i play pretend
i am a sprite again we make
believe on slopes that smell of days-dead grass
that smell of monsters split in twain and us at last
atop the mountain, through the forest, five steps from the deck
and in the shade i am an elfin thing replete with knife and blade and time
to kill, to kill, to kill
;
now they jut and furl and ache,
skin draped taut and pocked and poked
at bones that droop and curl and shake
the creeping things, cut vines and sick-sweet flashes
round your throat just down the street
the dreaming shifts its shape,