The bed is harder than asphalt
hotter than tar cooked
to a gritty treacle by July
and although it’s March, winter
still grips the roof with killer’s fingers
the heating thuds guilty carbon belches
and I writhe with the brain heat,
cranium cracking like a fault fired pot,
flames finding weakness and licking it.
I made this mind a crematorium
and for assembled family roll us in
corpses on a barge blaring
all the rock songs of summer
and winter’s dreams of heat
lost in the absence of consoling sleep
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