Eyes peeking out pain from sockets
as the catheter goes right off rocket
past the unimaginable shock of birth.
Spread thin like salad dressing
by the American Medical Association.
Served up for billing purposes.
Let me be your gravy train.
Let me be your next victim
of the artfully intelligent artificial
laser-guided Davinci surgery machine.
There's not even a purr,
Doctor, do you concur?
Having already navigated
your impersonal professional gatekeepers,
read your data-driven beepers, soaked, no,
deep-fried into molecular
Sauce of Information
Inflammation A-la-Mode,
do you concur, Doctor Bones?
When I was young if they cut you up,
gutted you like sea bass, oh, they had class,
they stuck you in a hospital for your broken ass,
with nurses & smiling feces faces
shaped like bed pans, an energy
almost as bad as the airport,
but they didn't throw you out
on the street just for sport,
doctor, do you concur?
Meet the new cruelty.
Culture that consumes.
Keeps you live long enough
to let you die & die & die,
splayed across the operating table:
Doctor, what are the words?
Am I oxycontin able, pain pills
for the electronic staples?
A feast for your gauzy tray ...
Doctor Bones, am I going to be okay?
No comments:
Post a Comment