I stumble out of bed like dawn of the dead
and in a frenzy of haste run to plead my case
to the porcelain throne.
Flailing like a bat in a hurricane,
with a hook in my gut being yanked
by a crank just for fun, I curse the father of time.
I feel like I am in an ice bath that someone
has nonchalantly dropped a hair dryer in.
It is just a little bit of mind numbing madness
with nowhere left for me to turn.
Now that I am done I still feel like a rat in a stick
glue trap waiting for the boot to come down.
I shut my eyes to this paradise
and get up off of my knees,
the smell up here is enough to make
my nose bleed. I piss on the mess
then flush down the nest of vile disease.
I swear that is the last time I eat
red and green chili burritos
smothered in two kinds of cheese.
I go to the sink and splash water In my face,
run trembling fingers through my tangled mat
of greasy hair. Ouch,
I just made the mistake of looking in the mirror.
I look like a gnarled old hound
with a mournful frown
and patchy skin
that has recently been blasted
by the bazooka of a mutant clown.
It is to bad the circus has already left town.
Fleeing from the sight like a virgin on her
wedding night fleeing the red pillar of doom.
I stagger to the kitchen and flip on the light.
My brain cries out like a wounded child burning
from the welts of a million red fire-ant bites.
Girding my loins for the next trial
I head for the alter of hope.
I pick up the chalice of bone in my
trembling, weakened, good right hand.
I stare at the machine squatting upon
its marble altar. I know what this is,
I remember what I will have to do.
I approach the urn of fulminating power.
I dispense some of the bitter bile
into the chalice and bring it to my lips.
Hot wires of flaring magnesium
pierce my skull through the bone.
More than a few of my last pain circuits just blew
and now I remember this is new.
And sure as hell it aint Folgers in my cup
it has got to be Star-Bucks special brew.
Mr. Hyde had warned me about days like this
but reality can just go get screwed.
At this rate I am never going to
make it to the laboratory on time.
Rummaging quivering fingers through
the refrigerator I grab an amanita muscaria
to eat on the train and ease my pain.
I fumble my way to the railway station
In fact I just barely catch the train.
Gazing out at the view I see seven
women in thongs, all with white
mustaches, now I am craving milk.
I know what I am feeling I know
that it is wrong, but what can I do?
It is just Madison Avenue,
screwing with blue.
Pavlov-ion reflexes aside
I settle back for a long train ride.
I am certain now of just one thing
I am going to skin Mr. Hyde alive.
Then I will sit back with a beer
and wait until he dies.