Florence the Intensivist

She crouches inside her sterile cage,
Wicked green eyes bespectacle a tiny brain;
This is her domain.

I

Ah my dear, do you not realize that the
excrement
Between those bony fingers is not your own?
How can you now atone these thoughts?
Yours is a tiny bastion of despair.
White bitchery beyond compare defends
transparent walls
With solipsistic squalls.
This is your life in solitary grey,
Meted out in mechanical breaths; one by one.
That greedy tedium
Between the changing of the guard.
Dismay and disrespect eke on
To offer consolation to a dead or dying
hand.

In mellodic and stilted notes,
Sweet uterances of a gorillas’ throat
Console, condole, control.

II

A little learning is indeed a dangerous
thing;
The jealous secrets of a minute mind
Cannot leave its’ pride behind
And embrace the truth alone.
How can you now atone?

Wipe the vomit from the floor,
Drudgery is such a bore;
If this is life there must be more.

The off white cloak conseals a darker heart
And painted eyes set purposes apart.
And even lowly vermin have their dreams
That life in daily tedium oft demeans.
The brutality of reality;
The deformity of conformity.
The banality and insipidity
That make one feel as a whore to life.
What consolation is there in this strife?

Look, the old man in gagging on his
spittle!
I see a tear in his eye.
Perhaps it is a crocodile tear;
Time is passing by.

III

Is there a place within this sad disgrace
Where lofty thoughts of worth may oft
amuse
And cognitive discord may not abuse
That porcelain ego?

Ah, let us take a break from the feculent
air!
The somber tinkle of a coffee spoon,
Methodical, mellodical.
A silent visit to the silver mirror;
The truth is even here I fear.
Soon it will be time to go home.
Let us wash again our hands
And free ourselves from lifes’ demands;
The slimy muck of a porcine life;
How do you now atone?

Tomorrow comes again, relentless and
vengeful,
Malicious and spiteful,
Plodding and prodding
With toil and torment;
And you a silent prisoner tortured by a
clock.

IV

Look out the window,
See the pretty woman with her child?
Is she really so beguiled?
How can you now atone?
Are these really great and gracious
things you do
To grunt and sweat beside decaying flesh?
Ah, you saw that fur coat on your way to
work
So white and feminine and chic
That men might think you meek.
In just another week,
It could be your disguise to calculate
demise.

Must you change that wretched bed again?
Ah, the consolation is he feels pain,
And so he shall, for just a minute more.

The thought of the smiling lady now returns
And so it burns and grates upon your brain.
She can’t be happy with her life
Being nothing but a wife.

The ego soars, abhors, ignores.
And can you yet atone?

V

And even at night in silent dreams
Amidst the shrill electronic screams
That tortured turmoil lingers and subverts;
Like a cloud of acid rain
Upon a naked brain.
You drift away into convulsive sleep
And yet its blackened silence cannot keep
Those images away,
Bleak and grey,
Lurking and learing,
Besmirching and besmearing.
The doleful gape of a schizophrenic ape;
And can you still atone?

The morning slithers through the window
Like a sated snake.
There must be some mistake.
Perhaps time has deserted you here
Amidst this sterile wasteland
To mock you with the ticking of a clock?

VI

Ah Florence, you can see the sadness that
each day brings
And yet no tears spring from that desert
heart.
Are these emotions really images apart?
The mundane entities and strains;
The futile pleas to reptilian brains
And anthracitic hearts.
Let us take a break from the feculent air!
Soon it will be time to go home.

The sooty night smothers the last rays
of a dying light
And strangles the evening with despair.
Loneliness beyond compare descends with
a somber note.
You raise the razor to your throat
Then carefully shave the stubble from
your face.
Why has life brought you this disgrace?

The crimson curdles in the sink;
Are you finally at the brink?

The morning dawns again, restless and
gnawing,
Scratching and pawing
Like a marasmic rat.
The world has returned in its masquerade
of mundane madness;
And do you yet atone?

VII

What of the dissonance between
yesterdays dreams and now?
Where are the passions of these precious
fruits?
Have you not lived your life as some
stilted sacred cow
Forced but to dine on bitter truths?
What burdens must that fragile ego bear!

Images of the gentle lady again return
And in its’ solace that granite heart fair
yearns
For its’ simple sane seclusions.
It is surely some delusion;
Perpetrated, promulgated, desecrated.
To love, honor and obey
Could only bring dismay
To a cold despotic mind.
There are reasons you might find.
That heart that masquerades as being kind
Would bludgeon a hapless infant with
delight.
We must not strike this from our sight.

The visage of the gentle lady lingers on,
Peaceful and serene
A gentle figure by a softly flowing stream,
Where quiet memories linger or convene
To mock in simple beauty seen,
And yet unseen…
As gentle maids may mock a sordid queen.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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