So says the diabetic

Too much digesting
whatever sounds or colors that surround
and too little vomiting
forth, shouting
out from a precipice
with wild eyes

so that another might digest
and think
that they too, digest too frequently.

Lukewarm water does nothing for the spirit
but will keep me alive,
and if I live in temperance and embrace
tepid liquid like a stone bed
I may be better off,
but I may just start throwing glass
if I have to bear another sip,

and so I suppose I am pedestrian,
uniform

with everyone who is so ecstatic
about creation yet unable
to devote
to anything but the tingles
of sugar and vinegar
on their tongue.

And so I eat sensations,
devour reflections
and add each word another says
to my own corpulence:
it coats my lungs,
my heart, in hills of adipose
and I struggle for breath,
for more inhalation,
consumption.

When I flay the taste buds
from my tongue, burn
this accumulation
by mounting a peak
that looks above the people
out straight to the sea,

and exhale accumulation
until it rains,
I will be alive.