False Diagnosis

On the edge of my seat,
On the tip of my chair,
Sweating in the Doctor's Lair,
Waiting for that sympathetic stare
And the news
That my slack heart
Needs a jump start,
Liver fails to deliver,
Blood is clogged
With choleric cholestrol,
Kidneys are more cesspit
Than filtration device,
Belly fluff is full of lice,
Tonsils are shot
With boasting bacteria
Roller-coasting
Down my gullet
To a soirée
In the small intestine.
Inwardly I scream
And await the death sentence
On my organs.
He'll tell me that
The years of gorgonzola
Gormandising and
Elevated caffeine intake
Have condemned me
To an early coffin-break.
Oh my aching mind!
I can feel the blinds
Descending and my
DNA un-mending.
The worms are wriggling
Down my spine
When the doctor says
‘You've got a bit of a cold,
You'll be fine.’











The patient sweating in the doctor's lair
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Poem Study Notes:


This poem was written in 2014, when the poet, now become middle-aged, began to feel his mortality.

This poem was inspired by the modern addiction to self-diagnosis-by-internet, which often results in us managing to convince ourselves that some little rash or chill is in fact a sure sign of imminent death ... and so we all end up in the doctor's surgery with a panic attack, dressed up as something more serious.

Of course, eventually the statistics catch up with everyone and really things are more serious. But hey, let's be optimistic and worry about that at the time ...