I'll die of a cancer of the spine

Fist published in Swans
http://www.swans.com/library/art13/xxx121.html

I’ll die of a cancer of the spinal column

It will happen on an awful evening

Clear, hot, perfumed and sensual

I’ll die of the putrefaction of some little known cells

I’ll die of a leg torn out

By a huge rat burst out from a huge hole

I’ll die of a hundred of cuts

The sky will have fallen on me

That breaks like a heavy window

I’ll die from a shriek

Running through my ears

I’ll die from muffled wounds

Inflicted late in the night

By bald and wavering killers

I’ll die without even knowing

That I’m dying, I’ll die

Buried in the dry ruins

Of one thousand meters of collapsing cotton

I’ll die drowned in dirty motor oil

Overridden by unconcerned insects

And just after, by concerned ones

I’ll die naked, or wrapped in a red cloth

Or sewed in a bag with razor lames

Maybe I’ll die without worrying

And with nail polish on my toes

And my hands filled with tears

And my hands filled with tears

I’ll die when my eyelids will be torn off

Under a furious sun

When I’ll be told, slowly

Cruel things in my ear

I’ll die of seeing kids tortured

And men surprised and deathly pale

I’ll die eaten alive by worms

I’ll die my hands bound to a waterfall

I’ll die hands burnt into a sad fire

I’ll die a bit, I’ll die a lot,

I’ll die without passion, but I’ll die interested

And then, when everything’s over

I’ll die.