behind the sockets

I picked cells out of my skull on fish hooks
to unplug myself like the telephone
and microwave oven with a blown fuse.
I put them in my sock like batteries
with no more energy to send.

You always dialled the wrong number
when I needed to talk, I do not always think
like this, I am just ill

inside my legs. Something tries to hotfoot up my thigh
and limp along my face --
my pores are stepping stones
to something more, like ambulances
stuck in 5pm traffic with my heart inside
on life support, humming I am just ill

inside my stomach. There is a tree stump
in my chest with roots too short to reach out
for oxygen, they are screwdrivers in my bones.
I am not hungry today, I am just ill

inside my throat where you sit like a new scarf I do not want
to take off. You warm my neck until I gag
then blood paddles next door. It burns
like fresh air does not belong there. I am just ill

in my hands, where metal lips smile and open their teeth
ready to chew through meat
until they can dig my voice box back up

so I can say --I am just ill
in my scalp, where germs sink
into vessels
and split eggs for breakfast.