The internet is
The hypochondriac’s best friend
They wake in the mornings
Alarmed by a dry throat
And they are informed
One of those 8 spiders
Swallowed in life
Laid its green eggs
(a fact that is untrue; must be –
What creature
Would think or want
To travel into
A wet, fleshy cave?)
They have a large lunch
And receive a bloated stomach
They’re told ‘tumour – definitely malignant’
By the omniscient online doctor
And imagine this
Red-eyed, black fleshy thing
Feasting on their guts
I’m not a doctor
But I’d call that black, fleshy thing
The Fear.
At night,
They leave the videos of doctors
Reciting viruses in Latin,
Viruses as dead as the language
And lay their headaches
Against the pillow
They get everything
But a good night’s sleep
And wake up
With dry throats.
