Home

Views from my bed

by Laura Doom

Just between you and me
I don't like talking
about other people;
it always ends in bloodshed.

Besides, having finally emerged
from a cocoon of anaesthesia,
I've become acutely aware
of my moral responsibilities.

Unlike Nurse Bitcher, who claims
that caring for patients
is above her pay grade.
Which is, I presume, why
she refused to change my bandages
after the latest auto-evacuation incident.

I suspect Doctor Dick
[affectionately known as 'Mister Diagnosis']
will poke his uncircumcised head
through the curtain and consult with me,
after the fact, regarding the DNR order
hanging over my prognostics chart.

Through the blinds, I can see
that the wall of the Pink Floyd
geriatric ward comprises seven
thousand four hundred and nineteen
bricks, thirteen barred windows
and a platinum ventilation grille stained
by decades of cigar smoke and pig shit;
no surprise it's due for demolition.

Across the corridor, the night staff
pull into their station and prepare
for hostilities to commence, honing
their nails on the filing cabinet.

A senior nurse strokes her beard,
under the illusion that this prosaic act
will single-handedly redress the bias
of the resident stereotypist.

The woman in the bed opposite
chokes to death on a diet
of smuggled homoeopathic highs
and Pay TV campaign speeches.

A contract cleaner electrocutes himself
whilst vaping a Colorado Gold mix,
and his partner goes off to claim overtime.

Meanwhile, the smart IV has switched channels
and is now feeding me tamazepam,
having misinterpreted my reaction
to the latest download charts.

A student prosthetics technician
hacks into Nurse Bitcher's connected uniform,
turns on transparency and propels her
onto the bed of a recently discharged
bladder whilst submersing her in a hostile
SciFi network, which is where she belongs.

As for my own imminent demise,
I've heard it said that dead girls
sell no lies, which is a shame
because I planned on financing
a maiden comeback event in Switzerland
by discrediting the dignity of others.

The sunset burns dead walls alive
and I am seeing red again, though
I don't have energy to waste
on hitting the panic button.

That aside, there isn't a whole lot to say;
and given the circumstances, I'd say
that's a good thing, now that I know
there are no secrets between us.

08/26/2016

Posted on 08/26/2016
Copyright © 2024 Laura Doom

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Ulyss Rubey on 11/25/16 at 06:27 PM

You are my favorite mancer of antisocial media. I know you are out-there or up-there somewhere enhancing our vocabulary with your unique and brilliant twists, turns, interconnections, creating words and phrases we never imagined.

Return to the Previous Page
 

pathetic.org Version 7.3.2 May 2004 Terms and Conditions of Use 0 member(s) and 2 visitor(s) online
All works Copyright © 2024 their respective authors. Page Generated In 0 Second(s)