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.