Tube Feet

Nothing cleans the heartburn.

Tiny tube feet keep me up all night 

splorrock 

splorrocking in my trackways, 

my flora and fauna 

eating a credit card’s worth of plastic each week,

Inebriantia of the airways.

Dead fish lie among the granules of my gut.

Where once club mosses grew

and giant horsetails soared beamish in the sun, 

crabs roam the polythene pellets of my packaging;

the gastroenterologist is clueless

as to why beaded fists of rain blot and ream,

and now I’m staying home

and eating wool like Claude Cahun,

now I’m killing flies 

like the mushroom on Queen Mab’s table,

the blade and biting of my body’s key

shouldering the bow 

and tip of continuous mutation.