I want to fix everything all the time
Maybe that's why I'm greying early.
Anxiety only feels good when I commit crimes
Ironically, because it's always there in me.
I think when I'm thirty I'll be bald
Alopecia will hit me by the time I'm twenty five
Can't breathe with palpitations, or so they're called
With these heart murmurs, I'm amazed I'm still alive.
Nostalgia makes me laugh and cry simultaneously
I know I take myself far too seriously
I'm tired of holding and losing things near and dear to me
Like acid drops and alcohol my blood's relatively
A relevancy and tell me, do I look infected to you?
I hide behind pastimes and impulsive rap lines
But nothing in the world could be farther from the truth
With smashed cats on road sides and fast forgotten rhymes, I
Wake up to Jim beam smiling over me
Cover leaves and evergreens childishly wind chime
I two-time everyone I meet to some subtle degree
And I've told my mom to die one too many times
But it's cool because without these angst phases
I'd have no words to express the connectable times
Which are the worst times, remember what I say
LSD and new Mexico make me want to fly away

Do I have a clue what I'm doing when I'm drinking at six thirty in the morning?

Today, around noon, I met true doom
On the train tracks of my Oklahoma culdesac
There was a dog split in four separate pieces
And though it was full of countless diseases
I thought Jesus, no one needs to see that
Considering the fabulous place we live at
So we picked up his leg and his two ******* torsos
And his head was twelve feet away from the track, more so
Rotten his teeth crushed, his spirit forgotten
Sought for life out of the fences he was brought in
Though we looked, no collar was around
So we put the poor ******* three feet underground
Brian cline built a cross (he was tossed)
And lost and crossed the best friend he fought
And I forgot for a minute the duties I hate
Because for once I did something that needed no reinstatement
Mourning wood does no good and frankly neither do I
Because when mom drinks she drives, and it puts suicide in my mind
But I got other options left to use
My throbbing ******* is sore, my bush blue and abused
Tattoo bleeding through, misconstrued my good graces
All these racists are faceless, playing miss Ohio's nameless
At full blast, backward, like present turned to past
If it were that simple, God knows maybe I'd last.

Do I have a clue what I'm doing
When I'm drinking at six thirty in the morning?

Bible belt majority, getting snotty and disorderly
Conformity torturing me, the owls hooting quarterly
In minutes, it's finished, let'***** it and stick it
This sickness is missing a home and I can't ****
Coffee in my *** is uncomfortable, but a necessity, like a
Suppository, strapped down the old man, the orderlies
Are ornery. I'm ***** but I'm tired of ***
Wishing I could love someone I've never really met
I can't rest at night with these relentless dreams
Waking me up with cold sweats and hoarse screams
My mind is reamed by the thought of Lucy in the mail
All the while hoping my friends keep themselves out of jail
I know this isn't hell, but I still feel like I'll fail
Chasing my own tail out of the fear that this isn't real
And don't tell me these restless moments are just deja vu
I know I saw all this coming when I was dazed in my youth
Swollen lymph nodes in my neck and in my back
Blowin smoke right back, who will be the first to act?
I'm tactless and laughless, and hapless, this mattress
Had lasted, in fact it's madness, this last kiss?
I've wracked it and cracked it with no decryption key
With all this frustration flying around, no one can hit me
But you scream all the way up the staircase
And I hope to the devil I never forget your face.

I inserted a suppository right after I had been using super glue.
My hand is stuck in my **** and I don't know what I'm going to do.
When I went to the hospital, the doctors and nurses laughed.
They were in hysterics from laughter and they called me daft.
When they laughed, it offended me so I kicked the doctors below the belt.
They kicked me out and blacklisted me because they didn't like how it felt.
Because of my problem, I can't drive a car or ride my bike.
I can't afford a taxi so to get to places, I have to hitchhike.
The drivers also laugh and I have to slap them to make them keep their mouths shut.
It's been three years and I don't think I'll ever be able to get my hand out of my ****.

I remember nothing, that night I had my crash
7 cracked ribs, 1 punctured lung, the other collapsed, my spine taking the ultimate bash
9 months inside, those doctors saving my life, where would I be without the NHS
27 years old, life just at its beginning, those days gone would now be your best

Waking up I looked at my mum and then looked at my dad, tracheostomy stopping me from talking
6 weeks induced coma, crazy dreams I couldn’t tell you, girlfriend now presumably walking
Knowing before told, who is going to be so bold, to tell me the news I knew but still did dread
Dad by my side, a finalisation they could not hide, it’s unlikely you will ever walk again

This I knew but dare not say, family and friends suffering in the know
A wheelchair for life, not me, its not right, too young for this to swallow
Moved to a place where spinal injuries were rife
Stanmore National Orthopaedic Hospital. an institution where you start to see the light

Moved from ward to ward, progress slow but on the mend
contemplating so many situations and a world I did not understand
faces and places now all the same still lying on my back
I want to sit up, be normal again and get this soul back on track

Taught about so much that I really did not know
your biggest priority now was your skin, pressure sores a definite no-no
learning to go to the toilet in a completely different way
catheters and a tube of ****, a perverted dream for some that even pay

The outside world a playground not built for the likes of those in a wheelchair
a trip into town, get used to the tube, disabled design back in the day not really a care
getting into a car, an ease all my life, now governed by the height of the roof
legs under a table, as some now unable, the world now a minefield is the honest truth

I met some characters in that place, men and women with stories to make your mouth drop
some on drugs, some back from the war, one woken from a spinal stroke, wow what a crop
I met certain nurses, most of whom were fabulous and are still now friends
then there were a certain few, riled and crass and basically, a pain in the ***

And this is where life starts all over again
getting used to the looks, sympathetic and loving, life now on a new trend
from being stuck in that ward where a suppository is now needed for my ***
you’ll know where I am, end of the corridor, bay 3 bed 1

JJB

Love is no drug, you fool!
It would be more accurate to say it is a state of emotion and affection,
of care and awareness,
of conscience and consciousness,
all brought on by a series of complex chemical imbalances and reactions in the brain.

Yes, in the brain,
not in your heart,
not in your bones,
not in your muscles,
but in your brain.

If love were a drug, you fool,
you would take it in by needle and syringe,
inhale its smoke,
ingest its fruits or flowers,
drink its enchanted elixir,
let it fizzle and dissipate on the tip of your tongue,
or worse yet,
open wide—it’s a suppository!

Yup, that’s right,
right up the *** with your love—
if it were a drug, that is!

Just suffice it to say,
love is not a drug, you fool,
It just happens.

Energy's deserted me and
my motivation motored off.

The nurse said,
give a little cough
and then she said,
all fine

well said I,
so there's nothing wrong
in the engine room, but why
am I tired all the time?

she chimed in with,
you need a little rest and all the rest that goes with it,
perhaps a tune-up at the clinic might help a little bit
she then produced a suppository that she said might do the trick, suddenly I felt better and you've never seen me move so quick.

a worse hellish fate than perdition really *****

As of early morning
today - September 8th, 2022,
I could not but barely move
mine whole body felt
analogous to sluggish mollusk
frequent constipation found me
doubled over in gastrointestinal agony
as if elephant stomping on tummy
or red livid with rage.

I've re: created how bull
heaver in fiber figuratively ****** his tusk
into lower abdominal area dawn to dusk
ah...voila... hence subsequently
blessed natural laxative,
the magic of Daily Fiber
100% natural psyllium husk
also known as metamucil.

Once again sphincter muscle(s)
spasmodically malfunctioned awry
whew suppository unnecessary
despite gastrointestinal stoppage
alimentary canal thwarted
porcelain goddess battlecry
at least seventy two hour time span
lapsed whereby big boy wanted to cry
explaining how yours truly
felt he would die
an undertaking malaise

found me experiencing
physical duress vis a vis,
a bowel movement,
wherein waste unable to expel
from the **** of this guy,
which bout with ****** obstruction
found me doubled over
with lower abdominal distress
whereby comfort found me unable to lie
down nor sit upright

(with back padded with pillows
against the cellar brick wall),
thus severe bloating a bonus well nigh
and managed on a previous occasion
to muster the means to bare
frigid arctic vortex aire to purchase
the Acme brand Metamucil,
which akin to Drano doth ply
thru the excretory tract
supposedly loosening the stools

which optimism (product
didst earn claim to fame)
generated a sigh
if that expressed intent
to cease LivingSocial would try
humph enjoining lxiii
year old married male
to cede victory to the grim reaper,
who would vie
as winner de jure

to this common fellow invoking libretto
ohm resistant understudy
waste not want not
allowing, enabling and providing relief,
without successful defecation
despite the oppressive urge
to bolster this Uriah
heep of balled up and tuckered out
five foot and ten inches of lovely bones,
thence mouthing retraction

of former thought to cease existing
though a non-bull lever
in any power broker qua mankind
relief at long last
provided posterior answered prayer
yet, this wordsmith
scrutinizes his recurring
pain in the *** jagged torture
and asks a rhetorical
one word question "WHY"?

Well now... monumental
poetic challenge recap,
I now craftily abbreviate
(think clogged toilet
synonymous with blockage)
waste matter after days did accumulate
regarding ****** blockage to alleviate
thus imagine impossible
airy mission to defecate
which debilitating scenario

(mine) frequent accursed fate
frequently recurring more often
as yours truly ages
i.e. latter day saint
Matthew Scott got older
****** affliction compromised me
ordinary easy going demeanor to boot
disallowing, disenabling, and not permitting
me - effecting, emulating, and exhaling
Tony the tiger's catchword grrrrrreat

if queried about my constitution
when alas... absolute ecstasy found me
expelling bowel movement with effort
weighing approximately 0.71428571 stone
though relieved, nevertheless
the toilet bowl clogged,
prompting me to correct historical records
on two accounts despite
causing potential ruckus
disaster buffs may incriminate
nsync notion huge bowel movement

(mine) took down (analogous
voyage to bottom of sea) toto Lusitania
and actually additionally
caused separate incident
complex edifice (think Titanic)
both sturdy ships of state
former rendered, lifted, foundered...
latter purportedly crashing
into iceberg invariably causing
rising sea levels courtesy
melting glacier (size of Florida) weight.

It's the post-pandemic suppository
or as they like to call it
the Boris Johnson oratory
feels as if
we're the cultures in a laboratory
( note how often tory is tacked onto words )

Keep healthy and happy, they say,
take two pills with water twice every day
but we know
they're trying to **** us with a kindness
because that is their way

and if we go by bus
because we can't afford
to go loco
we're still crazy and heading
to the nuthouse.

You don’t sleep well in hospitals
Someone always bustles in
To bring your suppository.
At night, they ship out the visitors
Leaving flowers and balloons stirring in the air conditioning
It’s dark
Except for the light under the door
And quiet
Except for
The distant beeping at the nurse’s station
The balloon faces leer from the shadows
While I watch Forensic Files marathons
Waiting for the next dose.
You feel good for three hours
But the meds always wear off before
The nurses will give you another.
When they come, a quick pill in a paper cup,
And you can sleep for a while
The fourth hour is the hardest

Denial
Is the wine you drink
When youre hungover
From reality

Denial is the ******
We indulge in
When we feel we’ve lost
Ourselves

Denial is the hemorrhoid of
Emotions
Sore to feel
When real
Impossible to heal
Without the suppository
That is time

Denial
Is the wine you drink
When youre hungover
From reality

Denial is the ******
We indulge in
When we feel we’ve lost
Ourselves

Denial is the hemorrhoid of
Emotions
Sore to feel
When real
Impossible to heal
Without the suppository
That is time

george bush planned a corsage
dependent upon surplus
the last generation of wealth
becomes the great gift of freedom
that i should have writen of death, instead
and in his sted i list at bottom mass
the critical distinction of time in my irish well
spent
on terrorizing liberties grey
she hath no mercy?
your dim release of execute?
suppository filth
filth of debate, the rush to go without, worlds in peace

interpol may now resign or no resign?> thomas picketty