Owen and Theta.

Oh what to speak of, these medicine men
whose life, it seems, consumes my own
and nowhere shall my fear hide and whine
like a dog, like a dog smeared show
of petty anger and frustration.

Hypodermic fixation: such hypocrisy!
In life, those who bide by that old
Hippocratic Oath sends me afright
and the cowardice seems justified.

And yet you fix me, the men who make things
better it seems, are somewhat off the scale
off the radar of my iatrophobia.
Can such psychologies be so
independent? What fear do i have

of the dead doctor-men who broke my
vascular system without true wit?
And where shall i live again
with no medical ailments and
where the world seems clinical?

Doctors, where will I live without you
and fearing both never and always?

Such despicable ambivalence.
I envy death.