Wooobish

The lights are too bright.
Life stings my eyes; mornings strip
Another layer.

I see something else
That I should never have seen¦
Life naked as it

Should never be seen:
Unprepared somehow, stripped
Of its sheen, bloody

With yesterday's soil
And dead the way that only
Plath could mean. And here:

The flies assemble
And fidget impatiently,
Their wings a flurry

Of insanity;
Their eyes sequins of sequence,
The death-toll of fate.

The body is more
Grey than white, over-easy,
One side cold slate, dead;

The other moss-green,
Alive with mould, rot, insects.
Maggot-ridden head;

Its eyes gulped down by
A Yankee who once said that
The bloodjet is this:

A bloody stream that
Cannot be stopped: a pupil
That takes it all in.