Q - MRI scan

"The MRI is a large tube, a bit like the centre of a packet of giant
Polo mints" -
This, from the lit they send you; and even as a poet, you couldn't make
it up.
Buried alive with a ween playing the world's loudest space invaders
machine,
weary of the plastic space in my face, I close my eyes; and I am
twenty-five,

bent over backwards in a swing made from a monster-truck tyre,
self-chuffed:
"Is that your best shot, fate, is that all you got?" I'd make a lousy
baseballer,
I never see the curve-balls. Pride comes before a falling-out; skip a
decade -
I study a greenpuddly lake in my boxers; and on closer inspection, like
a trip,

I find a tiny approximation of me, drunk, bashing weird Kevin's door,
1990.
Perianal abscess. In the six months since, I have seen - soaked into
swabs:
a punch-up with my dad; my inability to grieve; being left out; toxic
temper.
The doctor said it is connected to something inside, and could drain
forever -

which comes as no surprise.

Motionless, as instructed, for half an hour; as if moving, going for
itch-gold,

will show up a malignant one.

The everyscouser returns, all matey, taking pot shots at doctors,
assuming
I'll reciprocate. "2 weeks, mate." He goes back to having his head done
in.
God (the eminent Paul Rooney at the Royal) will spend the festive
season
with his milkybar-mouthed kids, lavish gifts, lots of stories of bad
bot-bots.

They say it shows everything inside you; makes you feel like a
kiddymesser
taking a PC to back to PC world: maybe, some stuff I don't want him to
see.
Salmon-stuffed, he will greet me with the same endearing semi-lame
smile,
be this my rebirth, my end - I'll be able to give others, myself, a
better idea.