My ribcage is a womb, a nest of larvae alive within me. A knot of pain, infinite abscess, incubator of agoraphobic affliction. I am the corpse of a dog crawling thick with flies, churning in the sun. I am a house gutted by inferno, kneeling grotesquely in the earth. Deathlike rattle like a swarm of curses, fingers closing round my wrist. Worming through me, a seam of corruption, ripe and riddled with its rot. Black lungs gasping, dripping slow. Black lungs erupting in crimson gouts. A crescendo, nucleus of torment, crucible of waking trance. I crumble, groaning and collapsing. Drag me, screaming, to the light. Black Lungs bursting, bleeding out. Black lungs ablaze, and I am a husk of ash. In the light we crumble. In the wind we blow away.

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