I watch the television, I’m no fool.
Size matters in the war against the microbes.
I’m working to boost my immune system,
juice up my intestinal flora.
Starts with a bulletproof breakfast,
a nice, bloody chicken tartare,
essence of Salmonella.
I’m field testing a vaccine for swine flu
by French kissing an infected sow.
Never in my life have I felt so low,
but no one likes the bitter taste of truth.
I’ll be the last man standing
after all these jack-in-the-box plagues
hiding like cyanide capsules in a rocky tooth.
I lick all the metro rails on the way to work,
bump and grind with that hobo chick
loitering platform 3 at République.
On weekends I eat cows
that were fed other cows,
sheep fed other sheep.
From dirt, we were made to eat dirt,
to tango with the bacterial secret agents
the government designed to water down
the global population density.
I’m no fool: I’ve got my own mithridate.
I’m saving up to buy an Ebola monkey.
This poem is featured in my forthcoming collection Dawn of the Algorithm, published by Inkshares and out in bookshops real and virtual on May 30th, 2015.
Pre-order your copy here:
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