Godemiché, or I fell on it

A separate wing has been built to house
these types, who blush at the door,
walk funny, who used to be able to hide
what had happened from other patients.
Nail-through-Hand sat beside Candlestick-Log-Jam
oblivious. And now? The nudity of being the poster

for that which is allowed no poster.
Ward A5 is orifice open house
for those with a courgette or jam
jar punted up the back door
Doctors snap fresh gloves. Patients
bare respective hides.



Nurses click x-rays from their hide,
pin each image to a light box like a poster
for the Misfits, with the patience
of beleaguered house
masters. Another through the door
and another; an agonised jam.



Overnighters pad past in jim-jams
like they have nothing to hide,
glancing at the queue by the door,
as if checking the post or
eyeing product in a cathouse.
The bell rings and a patient



hobbles out with a card for the outpatient's
next week. The nurse's holler of “Jayyymie
Konstantin!”, rattles Buttplug House
and a mad-with-nerves man eyes first the door
then the meningitis poster
then anywhere he could possibly hide



before standing, wincing as the door
knocker in his rectum loses patience.
He passes cautionary posters,
wishing to melt into jam
with each step, wishing his hide
was hollow, wishing to be in his own house.



The clap poster girl winks. Out of the door
he runs, arse like a torched house, as far as patience
will take him, past traffic jams, anywhere to hide.