The ward

when she tortures the vertebral
butterfly
& the clinic gleams
electroshocks
& rubber
to evaporate the meeting
of egos
& the pervert laughter continues
it seems like the loss of all
control
like sleet in the middle of July
fornicatory
hail
& Jesus' heart wide open
while
glow-tubes moan the KC
blues
wine into water
brain into salad
the KC
blues
drives in
jackhammered
& the windows cannot be
opened
today

she's now out of all
recognition
to the world's
professional
ethos
locked behind the nerve gas
door
the healing
procession
of fact
in death's barrio
basin

& the clinic gleams still:
them tube-glows
come like
ample
sparkles
return as the nurse's
cool confinements

& she might just come
like
revenge's sweet
fire
when the next Irish life
comes
around