my achilles tendon hates me (and other poetic words)

Please excuse the poem below. As an assignment for my poetry writing class, I can hardly call it complete, competent, or otherwise commendable (it's a work in progress). Still, it may be worth reading. And if not, I could use the tomatoes or other fruit you may throw at me - food is always a welcome addition to my face.

Time is a death march of moorish days
of burnt purples rolling 'cross spindled swells;
the ground falls into bogs of mud-caked slurp-slaps
with only the bleats of musty sheep to sound the moan
of slogging air that rests on my tongue.

My Achilles tendon hates me,
but I'm the only one surprised
by Paris's arrow as it lodges in my boots,
creating dewclaws of my skin
as Malham becomes a place of ever worsening pigs.

My Achilles tendon doesn't hate me,
at least, not in the traditional sense of red-rawed skin.
I'd pay a quid to make it stop -
maybe two or three -
or I'd kiss a sheep and it would rain:
"A most excellent way to start the day."

The bulging blister of hate now swells
in a frustration of cooling air, rising wind.
I'd ride a sheep if I could, lassoing it with cords of wool
as a Matilda of capricious cleanliness,
dragging my body from bog to bath,
where food is hot and sleep will creep
in frustrating quietness.
I'll lose my pain in hurting dreams,
a forgetting of the present
for a future I fear.

Les moutons bêlent et se comptent.
The sheep count themselves, eager to sleep
as time revolves - limping - from one moorish day to the next.