I don’t know
what it’ll take
to make
me get up & go

maybe some kinda surgery
where a blurry surgeon
emerges
from the pub
struggling to pull his scrubs up
falls backwards through the theatre doors
to the ironic applause
of all the bored nurses
who yawn as he curses
and the instrument tray searches
for the cranial saw
he finally finds by his crocs on the floor
then theatrically sets in a roar
to bloodily buzz and clunk
with a liberal spray and a chippy chunk
till someone taps him on his shoulder
and he turns and gives a sexy smoulder
that really only emphasises how much older
he is than anyone else there
but he’s too drunk to care
and as the anaesthetist gags
he turns back and grabs
my bangs
and flips back my hair
to the horrified screams of everyone there
and pops off the top
of my bony little mop
like the cap
from a bottle of Grolsch

takes a step back

gives his knuckles a crack

has a quick snack
of a baloney sandwich
he snitched
from the bins
on the way in

then with a tuneless hum
pokes my bulging cerebellum
for a bit
with the exploratory tip
of a ripped
glove
then with one last shove
dives elbows in
with a rusty probe one of the nurses throws at him
which he rotates & rattles
in ever growing circles
shouting ‘Is this any good? I don’t know! Fuck it!’
alarming as a farmer with a broom handle in a bucket

I think you’ll find that’s neurosurgery, in essence
you’re better off sticking to antidepressants