The Season Stream of Nutmeg

She's the season stream of nutmeg
scent to slake miasmafalls
that toxic-lake a dried monsoon
below the tethered jelly walls.

Listlessly, I fall like offal,
further laundering the visions
of the Comfort Inns that pall me
heated porphyritic fissions.

In this suite my flesh is turning
bated burn-of-soul for you
that I may fast-unforge my fingers
and escape the nothing through...

But the molten cast's enfolding,
burbling my shapeless goo
into a hemostatic plasma
which my asthma can't subdue.

The charred and shackled bits of
slumber that remembered what to do
have now become the nothing-stench
to bar in tar-ignomin' slew,

and thrash disease about the trench-
lagoon encased in sputum-letters
which forsake they can't consume
behind the dewy cakes of leather.

While impugned beneath,
I load upon the peaks of halitosis,
insufflating silt from sand
at cystic Underlord Fibrosis.

Acids volley in revolt
with alveo-lethargic spurs, the
slurring spirals wake the smoke
and nutmeg nightmare reoccurs,

so fluxing-out among the slag,
I seal systemic apoptosis...
pneumonoultramicroscopicsil-
icovolcanoconiosis.