Doctor Death

 

 Bored terrified
hated drawn as
a cartoon…
Living wrong.
Underdeveloped
ego for sale,
needs water
and sunlight.
Needs a stone aged
clock-less social
life, one without
weapons, the Shakers
perhaps. A spirit
of simplicity leaning
towards transcendence.
I’m not aging gracefully
yet, all in all. No
one to save except
myself and I don’t
know how. Tai Chi.
And other sci fi novels
digitized under my
tongue, by way of
the nose. People don’t
even look at me, properly
invisible, especially when
journal writing. Filling
pages with snot. ‘Woke’
agony, a soup I made
in my twenties reappeared
in the frig, properly
spiced it might do for
my guest’s breakfast,
if they wake up
because I can’t.
I’m flat. Lost all
my friends last week
in the Battle of Mid
Century furniture vs
Gothic underwear.
Modern has never
even been seen in
these parts. Post
modern is next tho.
After my appointment
with Doctor Death.
He said, reinvent
yourself please, quick
before a slight breeze
blows you away.