Surgical Reflections

Days after the surgery I was not myself. A millennium of stuttering expeditions through metallically gleaming brain-tunnels illuminated by a flickering sixteen millimeter movie camera shuttered my wandering soul. The hospital was empty except for one pretty nurse, and a few demented ghosts---their exposed bottoms gawking like beluga whales from the cracks of ice-white gowns. I walked the bare corridors on spindly legs borrowed from an old horny man. Those legs kept me chasing the pretty nurse even though I knew the surgeon had successfully removed my libido and fed it to the hospital cat. I found her as I drifted through the intestinal coils of a prone delirium. She stood before a brick incinerator its iron door gaping wide. The oven fumed, fed it seemed by the desires of spectral dreamers. The nurse undressed throwing her uniform into the fire. Blowing me a kiss she jumped silently into the flames. ‘I must be out of my mind’ I thought. The person who was not myself turned, seeking a bed where tubes dripped a steady flow of surreal cravings. That night I strapped a laptop to my eyes; then tucking my tail between my legs I wrote a love letter to the hospital cat.