Fever Dream / The Pronoun Poem

It:
Not she,not him but an it.
I amn’t insolent,I’d
ask it
for tea but it
is the demon in my
sleep.It
puts its shoes on my
coffee table and puts his
mug of Ribena on my
table without a coaster,did I
just call ‘it’ ‘he’?
Slip of a tongue,my
tongue which is now in flames and there’s nothing you
can do,not even a glass of water can put this
inferno out.OK,I
might be exaggerating,because it
is only burning 37.2 degrees in here but why do I
feel like The Burning Man,being burnt while voyeuristic hippies look on?Why do I
feel like I’m
in northern Nevada?Don’t get me
started on the hammer inside my
medulla oblongata and hypothalamus,where Bs look like Ds because the pods of peas from the Bs fuse as one when the hammer beats like a drum.I
need my
meds,the yellow ones or the small one which looks like a telephone,it
doesn’t ring though.
And it
is 4.34 am now,but it’s 10.34 am in Spain somewhere,I
might be lying half awake in the midst of my
fever dream right here,but in Spain I’d be lying fully awake in the midst of my
lazy morning,thinking about you
thinking about me
thinking about you
thinking about me
thinking about you.

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