Is This Love
I'm sweating like a mushroom
under dark and dampened blankets;
lettuce for a pillow softly
sticking to my face.
My bowels hyperactive
and I quiver at the thought of you
and wonder if you're sweating, too,
drunk and getting slicker as I speak.
Are you troubled by a queasiness,
guts a-rumbling thunder?
I wonder if it isn't flu, and if
it could be love I dread instead.
Think I'll get a bucket, though,
cos either way it's sickening, my heartbeat,
it is quickening... - too late -
it wasn't love, my love, but something that I ate.