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.
Just the need to throw up
my own name.
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.
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
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.