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Well, doc,

my groin is in severe, sharp pain,

and my testicles are tender,

but I think it’s because life

is a gigantic, prolonged shot

to the nuts, and hope is

existential blue balls.

 

My abdomen hurts also,

which means my heart

must have dropped from my chest

like an ancient angry asteroid, 

and where it landed

there’s unimaginable trauma;

a miles long pit in my stomach.

 

Nausea?

Just the need to throw up

my own name.

 

Chronic headaches?

No one ever told me there are thoughts

that can concuss from the inside.

 

The annoying muscle twitches?

My soul tapping the inside of my body,

asking to get out.

 

Unremitting diarrhea?

Well, I am stumped on that one,

though when you spend all your time on the toilet,

it’s no wonder you view life as

shit.

 

The diagnosis is quite simple

as Beckett suggests:

I am on earth,

and there’s no cure for that.

 

Being human is unhealthy,

and having skin is a death sentence.

Andreas Fleps is a 27-year-old poet, based near Chicago. He has a degree in Theology, where he also studied Philosophy. He translates teardrops.

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