“Doctor, we need more pills for our patience
so we can get more patients.”
Get me an Rx, stat—
hit the deep web,
or whatever corner the interns score their morals from.
And bring me a nurse we can bang over—
well-versed, sober,
but tell her to hold her applause
because if this hangover wins,
I’m clocking out in a hearse.
And while we’re at it,
the whole world needs a makeover.
Fraud in plain sight,
unconscious piss on the fallen—
what a trip.
That’s not a Freudian slip,
that’s Freud falling down the stairs
and blaming your mother for it.
It all goes back to Uncle Trouble’s past.
Self-made man.
Self-made until he dropped the big E,
now he’s just self-mad.
So let me pause before this final sentence—
use common sense,
add an extra comma before but, and, or,
to add drama or suspense.
And that comma?
Instant karma—
you’ll get what you got coming
and going.
Everybody wants their shot,
but the dharma bums don’t talk about guns;
they just swing for the fences—
ostensibly offensive to some,
but you can’t fix what sticks in your head and makes you want to fight.
And that being said, here’s my plight:
the insanity sits in my vanity.
Maybe I should find God.
“Doctor, I think you’re losing your patience.”
What do you mean?
Love is patient, love is kind—
they said if I loved myself too much
I’d go blind.
Bullshit.
I can see for miles.
Maybe I’ll fight the resistance,
write their riddance,
rewrite their wrongful existence.
Be the pause
before my final sentence.
And get that nurse an ashtray.
The patient spent his life working,
now his heart is hardly working—
he’ll be living in an urn.
Too soon?
Alright, call it.
Time of death:
whenever the last punchline landed.
Cause of death?
Freud slipped again.
I’m losing my patience.
There’s no cadence to this curse.
I want to go back in time—
you know, when men were men.
And goddammit—
where’s my nurse?
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