End of the Line

 There are whizzing and whirring sounds clear in my head
with my current pulse rate I should probably be dead.

The space around me emulsifies like powder,
there’s a taste in my mouth like tinned tuna chowder.

My eye colour cycles through red, amber, green
I feel flashing lights that my eyes haven’t seen.

My knuckles crunch, my joints grate like cheese
my bones mulch together like doughnuts in grease.

My spinal chords missing, my lips cannot sip
my anus gyrates, I feel loose at the hip.

My fingers extend, my rib cage tingles
a burp and the smell of my feet intermingles.

I close my left eye, the right pupil dilates
the trembling stops, my orgasmic anticipates.

I snort like a pig to regain my sublime
as my left nostril runs to the end of the line.