The White Plague

My grandfather told me I’d live

to see the juice days but damn

I never believed him, really;

Like I never believed in balloon animals

or Emily Bronte, or f*****g Keats

coughing into his juice

and imagining nightingales

I never believed like them romantics

who craved the pallor of gasping

like a lunger, or a fanatic;

Longing for consumption

to do what it does

eat that red from their cheeks

coughing up juice, endless juice

in those old

juice days

like grandfather said I’d see;

But I never believed in magic

or any White Plagues

or wasting away

balloon animals, or Charlotte Bronte,

or f*****g Dumas,

coughing into his juice

in those endless juice days

when everyone hopes to die

like my grandfather saw,

back in his day

with his own bare eye;

But I don’t believe in ice-cream men

or Elizabeth Bronte, or f*****g miserable Hugo

coughing into his juice

before my grandfather’s endless

juice days

he said, boy

its all just disintegration, of the meat

into the juice, the space

the white plague

between everyone aware

and everyone falling asleep.