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Hospital Blues




One


The last place I would go in this world is a hospital
The disinfectants remind me of all things bad
Unwanted death and sudden disappearance and agony
All the worried faces, all the sweat and rush
Except for those who have given in to lie like a log
Metal beds that is found nowhere
But in this miserable haven of grand infliction
Drips of inverted IV bags and bottles and IV lines
Dextrose and flows of nothingness
White and slightly yellowed bed sheets and their wrong sense of hope
As if illnesses and diseases will tender meanings to a life

Yet the drippiness is a privilege for the rich
Local priests are too glad to receive bags of black money
As if, again, charity is their birthright
While it is a matter of life and death for everybody
And the hospital don’t care who’s who
But a little goodwill and lots of money
No matter you are a pilot or a parrot

It’s entirely not welcoming
Unless, of course, you got a pile in the ass
Or you got shot in whichever part of your body
Hospitals belong to the death
Medical progress is a conspiracy
The sick, the weak and the death have with experts
All across Ukraine and Russia and China

The man who smuggle heroin has built a mansion
The health-conscious man was hit by a speeding truck
It’s a disaster for the death to cease in a morgue
He wouldn’t even know where he is
Because he is dead! Gods are redundant here.


Two


Now the home is inching towards
Its aspiration seems to be charmed
Like local institutes of medical sciences
It does for the sick, the weak and the death    
Like the rare mortals’ visit to hospitals
I visit home only during times of malady
Conscience smitten, nostalgic in certain listlessness
In the same breath, return back, draw the world blue
And if that is enough
I love to label it as the grand annual fest
Maybe we can call it anything—disinfectants?

Life’s a phenyl cleaning off the overlapping disasters
It’s the doctors’ visit to count the number of living days
It’s as bland as the kanghou from the hospital canteen
It’s the illegible, insignificant text and information
Minuscule lines, disregarded terms and conditions

Its obituary has been written a long time ago
Maybe that’s why we don’t mind killing each other
Maybe other folks have got a lot of reasons
The only thing left are thoughts about home:
Goosebumps and familiar tales and missed festivals
And family occasions and a chance to smile
But everything reeks of disinfectants now
And it’s gotten into the memories as well
Yet I have lost my way to home
Irony and tragedy have climaxed in comedy.


 —Concluded

FROM THE ARCHIVE: Hospital Haiku


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