Diagnostic rock stars

light the pink sickness

on my forehead

with the squeal of a spirochete.

I am sick.

The antibiotics climbed

the mountain

and blew away like ashes

at the top.

Who will I turn to

when the music stops,

perched on one screaming

foot in my box?

The seats in the crowd

are filled with the

whisperers.

On stage, the fully

realized monsters of

scientific sound.

Actualized mindfucks

who are going somewhere

because the conveyor

belt from the stage

runs only for them.

They see through me.

The extra vision in

my head a hammock

supporting the exhaustion

of my pine cone.

I have thoughts of lances,

of silver mercury

waiting for a cog rail

that sleeps.

I will take the mercury,

apply it to my forehead

like Ash Wednesday.

My Easter is on tour

with the band.