10 hundred hearbeats
later,
death related,
knowledge unavailing,

all self deviance equal,

what today
is called
either partially
aloat,
or cast into
the obligatory,

some stifled sinking sigh!

I know, not what -
it is, if not drinking?
or the art of swallowing...

thirsts that overflow,
claw out my heart, loins,
and throat!

growling distemper,

every different kind
of cloak one can procure,

hold on fast, when unsure,

a scam of poorly pearls,
vomited into my palm,

that I can steal light
at the drop
of some excruciating
atom of self pain!

beautiful and floored
by
the smile
under
the blue
vial
of some
predestined
cream coloured thread
of elastication

popping out
like a hanged man!

I can
I am

one lost dangling
improbability,

oh! sweet saliva pit!

GRANT FRASER

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/drowning-preferred/