The doctors study my dirty pictures.
My soul shows up as a suspicious finding,
a hyperechoic space. The magnets
learn I’m bad inside, learn I left
my conscience with the donkey boys
on Pleasure Island. You can lay down
in the MRI machine, but you can’t lie
about your sicko brain, the one that stares
at every nurse’s ass. It’s all there
on the radiograph. What a prognosis:
pumped with gadolinium, stuffed
with silicone, villain of circumstance,
always topless, desexed for death.
Victim Of Medical Imaging Tests:
VOMIT. The only difference between me
and someone else with breast cancer
is that I would, in fact, wish this
on my worst enemy. And for that matter,
on my best friend. Aren’t I rotten?
Haven’t I sinned? Lived like Joan Crawford,
played the bitch, only to find the party
over – tinsel horns crushed
under heels, cigarettes burnt
into furs. I’ll take my final pills
in a goblet of Chantilly cream. Then
I’ll take my leave. Rub my palms
together, then cart my lucre
down to Hell.