Document M

I have gotten worse, I know this, I sit in the background of life, reading document Mm,weeds have begun to grow on my cheeks, a passion flower, grown from seed, swells from my shoulder, my eyes are under threat from vandalism, yellow orbs, spoked with red, pretending to be suns.I no longer smoke, my fingers have no time to roll papers, my tongue is caked in chalk, could not produce the spit, to lick the arse of a stamp.Nicotine is fed by intravenous injection, directly into my mind, tar is pumped from the beds of dinosaurs, straight into my lungs, I look after myself once a year, when the wife finds my corpse, and has builders come around to break the cement from my feet, to shovel the broken bottles from my womb, being careful not to disturb the sky, or let on that I'm a man.It will come to an end one day, I can't keep getting worse, my muscles can't swell into rocks, pumped by my raging heart, tar takes its toll, as does writing.