A poem that I wrote with an 103 degree fever

Maybe a Little Feverish

flash-flood flush
and maybe a sparkle
or two

they say i should be 
worried about dehydration
but Rorschach spores
have already entered my
flaccid brain sac
so i think i have more pressing concerns

they have sprouted into
what some might interpret
to be various fungi
and i’m trying 
   to keep up
   to uproot
these mushroom musings

before they overflow my pensive pails 
wondering about wet dreams
   & night sweats
   & can we really save the
   rainforest/whales/children?

they’re wandering about in a sorta floaty way
fucking and cursing god and freud and those
TV commercials for vaginal spray

they demand deodorant, however (spring fresh)
& boxes
 to put in boxes
  to put in boxes

i’m not sure why
but they keep sending me these 
bizarre text messages

about
 crappy performance art
about 
 Raggedy Anne
about
 how i should have been using
 my piggy bank all along
maybe they have a point
        but I’m way to stubborn to admit it
& who are they to tell me what to do?

    really, i’m serious
    who are they?