Tag Archives: syndrome

Chasing Zebras, Circling the Drain

When I sew you up, don’t let me—stop bleeding!
Tiny stitches that you placed into my skin
Won’t let me go (oh no, oh no!)
And they’re ruining the mood
So I’ll toast every beat of my heart like a miracle…

~*~

I’m just a madman in a gurney

You’re just a liar with a rope

These palpitations don’t concern me

If you cry now, you won’t cope

.

And the nurses are dancing wrong

For the lesions that marked your skin

And the doctors are singing along

Burning like injections and liquid sin

.

Intubate me, I can’t breathe alone

The lozenge you prescribed lodged in my throat

These syndromes are but mere anomalies

But I’m a curious mystery, solve my cataplexy

.

Diagnose me again and over again

Abscesses in my heart, lymphoma in my brain

Give me some lorazepam or another placebo

Is there a hospital gown I can borrow?

.

A convulsion and a single stroke

Say the words and I’ll say that I’m sick

And the experimental apparatus didn’t work

As the vaccines failed the antibiotics

.

Immunocompromise me, make me weak

In a pathological war of an epidemic

I’m in remission, you gave pulmonary edema

I can’t speak now, I’m down with aphasia

.

Another dose of Vicodin to cover

The pain feeling like electric shocks

Your chest heaves under the defibrillator

Your oxygen tank ticks like the clock

.

Count the beats on the monitor

I won’t close my eyes if you listen slow

My blood is clotting from pressure

But don’t worry dear, you won’t see me go

.

I’ll perfuse the circuit, keep you alive

I’ll call a crash cart to make sure you died

Teach you how to use a morphine drip

And sedate you from Occam razor’s sharper slip

.

Accidents happen, they occur the worst

Trust me, this is just a blessed curse

Your heart is removed, your skin feels cold

Just don’t end up crying in the morgue

.

Don’t seize now, don’t crash in a hurry

Hold on, I’m trying to save the date

You went into tachycardia at the sight of me

Your scheduled surgery is running late

.

So call off the operation, call off the operation

If your valium teeth are still smiling

Call off the operation, the operation again

If the IV drips blood, we win, we win, and I win

.

‘Cause I’m just a patient dying in sepsis and crazy

You’re just another white-coat liar with a stethoscope

And all the tools and scalpels are already rusted over

But doctor, is it still too much to ask for some hope?

~*~

And I don’t think you’ll ever want to love me
You’d better listen to your doctor
Doctors lie (lie!), lie (lie!), lie
If the dollar is right, oh, my sweet little girl
Hold your mouth and you’ll be all right!

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Calypso Syndrome

It’s strange, this calypso.

I never minded it much at first, dismissing it airily as one of those Muzak or background noises that you never really notice until it becomes an unbearable itch, and only then do you start paying attention to it. But in a rather unusual case, this itch of mine grew all the more inflamed, and eventually my skin opened into bleeding sores that are unable to heal. By that time I can no longer simply wrap it with gauze and bandage and pretend it wasn’t there, waiting patiently for it to close into scars on its own accord. And the poisonous tune in my wounds began to affect not just my veins, but my neurones as well. And for a pleasantly tintinnabulum orchestration, it surprisingly hurts.

The calypso comes and goes with thrums of drumbeats and ludicrous whistling and other intertwining instruments that I am unable to disentangle from one another to properly identify, and though I must admit it’s a finessed, almost elegant tune, it’s also making me conjure the queerest of surrealistic denominations and distorted, perplexing thoughts from out of nowhere, sort of like a surrogate deconstruction, an impermeable derealisation, but gradually worse in the long run. Somewhere at the back of my mind I picture cowboys with revolver guns and Stetson hats, mounted on horses and kicking dust and desert tumbleweeds everywhere, and I’m the unlucky pilgrim that got caught by the rope and towed in their blistering lassos. But I’m not biding my time to contact lead poisoning, nor am I willing to scalp some nemesis. No siree, I shall hack away at the abrasive bonds with a silver butterfly knife, drink a round of hard liquor victoriously at the saloon, and retire by the brothel with a painted lady by my side.

What…what am I even saying anymore? This nonsensical metaphor further drives me off the exploding rocket, that musical calypso pirouetting daintily in my subconscious like a music box ballerina spinning soft and delicate in its silent gears, yet at the same time gnashing angrily like an undeterred steam train wearing down its metal tracks with a screeching discordance. The residual smoke from either grinding clockwork machines is making my head feel quite hazy and warm, to a point almost feverish, and you might see pewter whorls rising from out my ears. My bonny maiden, what have you done to my mind?

My dear, sweet, darling maiden, forgive my ideologies and spare my heart no harm. What have you done to me? Your melody is luring me in, onto a cliff, which I could’ve sworn was filled with furious torrents of stygian waters and jagged rocks brandished mercilessly to impale me at the bottom, but now it looks like a doorway to paradise, the palest cerulean glimmering softly like a polished sapphire, a fantastic reflection of an immaculate cloudless sky, though not of the greyed hurricane skies accompanied by a foreboding drizzle, that the sombre weather has to offer today, so I haven’t the faintest where the parallel mimicked itself from. Heaven, perhaps. And if I lean in closer and dare to hang one ear off the edge, I could almost swear that your harmony’s getting quite louder, less garbled, less shrieking, more pronounced and more than decipherable. I’m almost tempted to jump right in, if only to have to listen to that perfect symphony palpably, but perhaps for even more sensible reasons as well. Or sensible to myself, anyways.

My quivering legs are beginning to dangle off into vast emptiness like a terrified child testing the cold water with his toes, and every last vestige of my dispersing sanity and gracious consciousness begs for me to back away from this dangerous farce, to catch my breath and touch my back for feathered wings that aren’t there, to shatter my delusions along with my fallen halo and walk it off, walk it off and never return. But that would be like throwing away the most decadent, succulent, most tantalising piece of fruit the entire planet has ever produced, without bothering to bite down on it and get even just a single taste of paradise, and I know once I waste it on initial hesitation, I’ll never get it back.

It’s hypnotising, this calypso…the never-ending music…that ocean of eternal aegean…this perennial phantasmic phenomena…it strains my invocation of curiosity very much…it winks at me, calls out to me, taunts and mocks and jeers at me…I cannot take this any longer…I must—no, I will know…I shall put an effective stopper to this vexatious mystery once and for all…to cease the sores from infection and haemophilic bleeding…to slash away the ropes of the rampaging cowboys…to cool down this deliriously smoking fever…and to return to my ultimate empyrean destination with welcoming arms to my elusive fair maiden…once…more.

I stare downwards at the dizzying drop as I allow it to pull me in—

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Filed under Prose