There were dead things everywhere

She's sure as sick on the pavement
that her heart has hands.

There are dead things everywhere,
carbon chunks of tongue
clip clopping around her oil skin drum lungs.

The left ventricle claps out dub
the right is a beer tent hub of math rock hate.

The atrium is a warehouse
crammed with apple crates,
teabags tied up as circus flags,
two cherries found gritten in a car park.