There’s a crack in his cough,
His oesophagus rattles,
There is blood on the back his tongue.
He crackles like fireworks,
Every time his insides
Are relaunched from the pit of his lungs.
With a sickly thick wet sounding guttural click,
His gullet erupts once again,
With a vicious and violent convulsion he tries,
To expel what his chest can’t contain.
Four wheels beneath him,
Each creak as they move,
Back and forth from the force of his fits.
He clenches his fists,
And he readies his ribs,
To contort once more, crumple and twist.
The minuets, the moments, the movements between,
Are his glaciers, his galaxies,
He is king from the seat of his mobilised throne,
‘Til his blood starts to bubble and squeak.
A whip crack, a cough,
His oesophagus rattles,
The blood hit’s the back of his teeth,
It slips to his tongue,
And his lips start to part,
To expel what his corpse can excrete.
