Recovery Position.

Life, oh, life. With its millions of mourners
Yet my heart runs out to the dark street corners
Dressed in mascara and laddery tights
It poses like prostitutes under the lights.
That blood-suffused whore! What utter audacity!
Yet I am amazed it has the capacity
Hope. It hopes one day to be seen.
Like a puppy it scrabbles. Desperate or keen?
Whichever. It follows, nips at your heels.
Won't you scratch all the itches my lone flesh feels?
No. You won't. I didn't think so.
I always ask, but I always know.
Misery, misery. A family tradition.
I live life in the recovery position
Curled up, I'll wait for the shakes to fade.
So pale and wan. A soul in the shade.
Under the mask I'm just the same
Just a mound of flesh with a Christian name
And a mind harangued with doubt, with terrors
With the bodiless shadows of long-ago errors
We do not mourn death, we mourn the waste
A person who abandoned the earth in such haste
For who could leave life, and their five-a-day
And the profound things that people say;
Too many cooks. Look before you leap.
Don't worry. Be happy. You should get some sleep.
No added sugar in life. Reduced fat.
And if you don't like it, well, whose fault is that?
You know the answer. It's all your fault.
But they know how to solve it. Cut down on salt.
I eat, I breathe. I don't work any more.
My soul slides out of the packet and onto the floor.