Tylenol Lullaby

Death has no face of
glory or beauty, so many
lying, wretched Greek sirens

that holds seats of power
not rightfully theirs.
Thick blankets of

carbon monoxide begin to
coax the sleeping babies
to slide under

six feet of quilted
turf and dirt and the
little flowery slips.

What maladies do you exchange
with the bartering rogues who
whore themselves outside of
Heaven's gates?

Do you swap your insomnia for
his lustful sin that
hangs around like an ageless rumour?

No ability so worthless that you cannot
exchange for an ache, a grazed
knee or a deifying cacophony
locked within your own mind.

The Sun has no personality,
unlike the grim Moon.
An eternal, celestial war
between mother and father of
the universe.

I do not count the stars, they
melt away under the influence
of their own cocaine.

Let Minerva rule the unruly
planets with no Doctor to
keep them silent.

How annoying the
tick of a clock. So loud is
a whisper, it hurts my head.

I do not believe in miracles
or that my knight in shining
armour will pull me out of this
peat pit.

Only pills of every shade and hue
can mask the odours of melancholia.
The bitter dust that infiltrates life
piles around in my greasy hair
and itchy eyes.

I do not feel you there, I do not feel
anything except a certainty
that liars go to Hell.

Sweet Cerberus with your
puppy dog tails, chewing on my enemy.
Good boys, good boys.

Not me, however. I will not join
the happiness of Heaven nor
the hypocrisy of Hell.

Walking aimlessly through the spirituous
mists of Nowhere in particular
until I finally meet a Doctor
who can help instead of laugh.