Sunday, 12 September 2010


GP Self-centred trinity:
The father, the son, the holy ghost.
They say 'practice makes perfect,'
Prefects perfect generality.
The wounded wolf who cried out sheep,
Warded by shards of elusive sleep,
Shivering, de-furred, veins exposed -
Petty self-portrait, selfish composed.

Salvation is submission,
To a god I don't understand.
The bruises remain on battered hands,
Prescription reeks of crucifixion.

Love parasites plague liberty:
The cure, the ally of the ailment.
They say 'it's how to save a life,'
Lusting a twisted nobility.
The alpha and the omega-3,
Base dyscalclia stained livery.
Post-doctorate salvation,
Twelve step Asimov assimilation.

Some say I'm as well:
I'm a 'physician' too,
Symptomatic deep-thinking,
Yet Bruises on hands still remain,
Morning: the death of another day.
Resurrecting obliterates meaning.
Wronging rites the force-fed death-bed conversion,
And the man in the wheelchair's the arrogant one?

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