all the living are dying
&,
all the dying are living,

like the praying harlot whose hands drip with prune juice
as she whispers her clotted dreams with her cracked lips
trembling, because her fantasy sits near,
by the window where he stares outside
at the man with eyes like the ocean,
his laugh: melted chocolate on marshmallow,
thick, oozing, perhaps even wicked -
everybody wants it,
though few indulge.

all the dying are living
&,
all the living are dying

when being alive becomes a pilgrimage to coffins
swathed in smoke and rot,
to a place where rats sit crouched, vomiting on summer dresses
as swollen bees stick their tongues into fickle pollen
determined to make it stay still,
but bits escape their darting pokes and drift to the
vacant swans with muddied wings, who glide across the tepid ponds,
whilst adults with acne kick loose pebbles
pus exploding from their painful pores,
as unblemished children run past
like snow on a battlefield
a child for a little while,
but only for a little while
because he must hurry, after all

all the living are dying
&,
all the dying are dead.