The Rot That Wasn't

Mattress memory
fantasies impress  
bodyprints  
like the pallor  
of mattock hands
Chopping sallow marrow
and clamoring into my muddy  
mind - Irish loam
 
A foam is
the whole
the addled all
the ever-it I've ever  
known
 
Dizzied breathing
squeezes  
stale attic air
through pinholes;
Glycerol victuals
for the perpetually perturbed  
 
Wind is words
winding
my findings  
spell book bindings
slide down wonderland
as blonde reveries  
ooze  
profusely
through blued out wormholes