BULLSHIT FEVER

on the toilet/of course/and again

no escape from it . . . 

my life's scattered around me in this 

dusty one-floor tank.

like in here;

a newspaper is drying crinkly 

by some socks.

and 

i 

realise

i am Useless/i AM/don't say i'm NOT; we ALL ARE.

and 

i

realise

it is all BULLSHIT; it is . . . always/no escape . . . 

and Things/living or conceptual or habitual or delusional

they DIE

they burn out like green bonfire branches disappearing in steam and smoke - BULLSHIT.

now i had a fever.

thought i would DIE/it was BULLSHIT.

and when at last i’d had scotch again/always/no escape . . . 

i knew i should tell her

WE MUST ALWAYS BE MAKING LOVE

but 

it 

is

BULLSHIT; useless always/again/no escape . . . 

and

i 

am 

actually kissing the Bottle

my fever

less than one day gone.