mud breakfast

Waking in transit
between a place of unconsciousness
to a place of electrocuting dull metal pangs
felt between your nose
and your two front teeth
and a little behind your eyes.

She exposes a thigh
slid between fabric,
because she's seen this in many adverts before
and anticipates
it will somehow energise her
heavy muscles.

It does not.

A knot in the throat
now spreads in a flesh-eating-manner
across the respiratory tract
infecting without glamour -
indistinguishably
blended in
pitch-perfect skin-tone of asthma,
a raspy and gruff
Good Morning disaster.

A new dimension of directing
the bugs in the veins
to make the uptight body
upright,
to aid the out-of -focus eyes
fix up on something,
soften, or distort - besides,
she's lensless.

Sticky tar
she climbs through
and into a cave of nothingness.
Yelps echoing around for one,
then absorbed in the latex walls
of chaos,
of course.

A morning effect,
the opposite of lemons and tangy sourness,
a mess
created in her face
to obstruct from any sort of normalcy,
and blemish a tabula rasa
with horror
and self-pity,
as 'toast' with her coffee.

Occasionally she feels fully responsible for imagining such an elaborate illness all by herself.

Good Morning.