Seriously, how much whiskey you got?
We were driving to another doctor's appointment. My head throbbed and
1 2 3
more vicodins down the throat, a dizzy lizzy.
My fingers went to my head, tracing out the last of the tumor. 7 days of creation, 7 surgeries, 4 wigs, 9 i.v.'s, 17 banana-shaped receptacles, 31 dressings,
1 2 3
bottles of vicodin down the throat, a dizzy lizzy.
My father tells me to be glad this is over before I go to college: "Boys don't like damaged goods."
Head is spinning, did he really say that he did but I'm damaged in so many more ways and I'll always have these oddly shaped scars, a swasitka the doctor laughs, we carved a swastika into your head
4 5 6
vicodin down the throat, a dizzy lizzy.
I leave the office, a fistful of tootsie pops, how many licks to the center, the pills aren't working, i grind my teeth into the tootsie pops, i'll never know how many licks to the center, but the bottles are at home and the drive is half an hour and my skull is going to rip open I know it will it did the last time in chemistry class
7 8 9 steps to the bathroom with blood on my hands, a dizzy lizzy.
The walls are white, the sheets are white, the bandages on my head--the new chic turban the doctors laugh--all white. My fingers are bloated, I can not bend them and the i.v. is in a new and exciting place--where my wrist is supposed to bend I'm tucked snug as a bug in the bleached bleached bleached blankets and here's where you push when you want more demoral
1 2 3 pumps of demoral into the veins, a dizzy lizzy.
But this is the last surgery they promised this time and promises are worth so much when uttered from those laughing doctors remember the fun when they ripped those tubes out of the back of your neck--you'll just feel a pinch--but there's another to go and now I know this is no ordinary pinch but don't worry
5 6 7 percocet down the throat, a dizzy lizzy.
Now it's over, and the doctor surveys his fine work--a swastika, we carved a swastika into your skull the doctors laugh. we can probably close those up a bit, you know, we just want you to feel comfortable with the results here's a mirror please tell us how pleased you are with the
0 0 0 no more pills for my throat.
1 2 3
more vicodins down the throat, a dizzy lizzy.
My fingers went to my head, tracing out the last of the tumor. 7 days of creation, 7 surgeries, 4 wigs, 9 i.v.'s, 17 banana-shaped receptacles, 31 dressings,
1 2 3
bottles of vicodin down the throat, a dizzy lizzy.
My father tells me to be glad this is over before I go to college: "Boys don't like damaged goods."
Head is spinning, did he really say that he did but I'm damaged in so many more ways and I'll always have these oddly shaped scars, a swasitka the doctor laughs, we carved a swastika into your head
4 5 6
vicodin down the throat, a dizzy lizzy.
I leave the office, a fistful of tootsie pops, how many licks to the center, the pills aren't working, i grind my teeth into the tootsie pops, i'll never know how many licks to the center, but the bottles are at home and the drive is half an hour and my skull is going to rip open I know it will it did the last time in chemistry class
7 8 9 steps to the bathroom with blood on my hands, a dizzy lizzy.
The walls are white, the sheets are white, the bandages on my head--the new chic turban the doctors laugh--all white. My fingers are bloated, I can not bend them and the i.v. is in a new and exciting place--where my wrist is supposed to bend I'm tucked snug as a bug in the bleached bleached bleached blankets and here's where you push when you want more demoral
1 2 3 pumps of demoral into the veins, a dizzy lizzy.
But this is the last surgery they promised this time and promises are worth so much when uttered from those laughing doctors remember the fun when they ripped those tubes out of the back of your neck--you'll just feel a pinch--but there's another to go and now I know this is no ordinary pinch but don't worry
5 6 7 percocet down the throat, a dizzy lizzy.
Now it's over, and the doctor surveys his fine work--a swastika, we carved a swastika into your skull the doctors laugh. we can probably close those up a bit, you know, we just want you to feel comfortable with the results here's a mirror please tell us how pleased you are with the
0 0 0 no more pills for my throat.
Labels: Poetry
posted by slickaphonic at 2:45 AM
2 Comments:
yikes. holy crap.
Yeah, but the funniest comment I ever received on my scars was from my pal Grace, who was from Singapore, but schooled in England so had a fucked up accent: "Lexi, yawr bawrl-ding!"
"Yes, Grace. In a geometrical pattern, no less."
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