And now, a slightly dark and gooey poem for hypochondriacs…
I heard the squelch of death again –
or was it just a neutron firing
deep within my boggy brain,
or possibly a cell expiring
down amongst a mucus mess?
It could have been my heart perspiring
(that may be a thing I guess)
or, deep down in the adipose,
the squealing of a fat-lump pressed
to serve as fuel, and I suppose
it might have been a small mutation –
“Pop!” (we get a lot of those),
a bronchiole’s sharp inhalation,
“Hiss!” a membrane’s gooey breath,
a bile-duct’s bitter salivation…
Probably, it wasn’t death.
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