Thursday, October 11, 2007

Notes taken in Health (9:45):

His breath smelt of whiskey,
fingers of cigarette butts.
Yellow tar stained his fingernails,
his teeth,
eyelids and tonsils...
He's rotting these days.
Worms just made it into his brain,
skin smells
turning grey.
Waiting in line to cash a scratch-off everyone sniffs round', think:
"What's that smell?"
He hears their thoughts. He always could
No one seemed to care. They ignored him, him listening to them not listening,
he was convinced he could help mankind,
or that he was a scientific miracle at the least,
but that was a long time ago.
Now he's rotting in line with the other living corpses. Dead but not enough to take it lying down...
He died a while ago. Roun'd 14. Woke up one day and his life was different...
It became a big wait.
The feeling of sitting in a waiting room, the smell...
It was with him from the morning to the night, day after day,
He knew what he was waiting for but didn't know what it was called.
It was a feeling.
Maybe not.
There were no words to describe it. None that he knew.
Maybe somewhere,
someone did.
But chances are Cats like that don't hang around the local OTB.
So he waits in line,

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