Long Ibuprofen Poems
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National Panic Wednesday March 9th, 2022 actually... every day
Founded by Tom and Ruth Roy
solely to acknowledge hardship
of A. R. Harris
and her husband M.S. Harris,
who cope poorly
(even courtesy medication)
with anxiety attacks, especially when
violated, probed, interrogated courtesy
Highland Manor inquisition,
which traumatizing event happened
on aforementioned date
included with poem title.
J. G. and P. F.
constitute management team
under jurisdiction of Quoss
(pronounced chhath tt) and Grade,
who espouse principle laissez faire
but whose exhibited heavy handedness
pertaining to the married couple
named in the third line of this poem.
Either one or the other gals
who attend these premises
here at the Schwenksville location
(I won't mention
the state as penile solitude)
alluded to a peculiarly nasty odor
emanating from unit B44,
our man/woman cave.
We received a twenty four hour deadline
to get into shipshape the disarray
messiness even Pigpen
would find abominable,
yet upon receiving both
oral and written admonition,
me and the missus
buckled down and kickstarted
frenzied whirlwind one bedroom
apartment cleaning spree
zoned out like zombies of Sugar Hill
when the clock struck bewitching hour,
more specifically that alluded time
synonymous with midnight.
No matter we felt dead tired
whereat neither option
to acquire additional time,
nor desist existed,
and yet nearly impossible mission
to continue, but appealing
to temptation of sandman
out of the question.
Deep sleep for the weary
appeared oh so heavenly,
on par with plate
of powder milk biscuits,
our mandate (analogous to pilgrims
adults and children -
forced to fight in crusades)
forbid cessation, thus to plod
and plow onward
despite overwhelming urge to plotz,
(not the slang definition)
found yours truly
blissfully in dreamland
when me noggin hit the pillow,
Not for a minute
could yours truly
sit down and take a breather,
despite severe lower
(rightside) back pain.
Said dull throbbing ache
diagnosed as tight muscles
by Doctor (physical therapist)
John R. Mishock,
he would not countenance
(approve, comply, honor...)
I popped one Ibuprofen.
Poetry Challenge Day Three
Poem Number 21
===========
Thank Goodness for the OTCs
Relieving coughs, sniffles and sneeze
Ibuprofen for the fever
So thankful for this pain reliever
And answered prayers
Through Acedominaphrin
Hallelujah, and amen
Blessed through modern medicine!
P.C. Poem #22
=========
We've rested almost through the day
But now I am quite pleased to say
This mighty mean and nasty flu
Tonight is feeling almost through
The painful throbbing in my head
Abated now, I'm up from bed!
For something so small
And so damaging
You sure go down smooth
The sugar coating slides down my throat
Into the empty abyss of my stomach
Where it dissolves and gets absorbed into my bloodstream
And silences all thoughts and numbs the pain
My personality is not multi-faceted
It is multiple people fighting for dominance
I sometimes forget who I am or where I am
In my own little ship
Sailing across the water
If I take enough ibuprofen,
I don't feel pain
The seas calm
But the waves come
Every time another mind takes over
At this point I'm overdosing
All of my joy and pain
Belong to another
I'm drifting into turbulent waters
And I can't swim back to the safety of the shore
I am just a little girl at heart
Trapped in a mental prison
The original mind I once knew
Has been gone for years
BLACK AND BLUE FRIDAY
First – the carbo-loading
monster meal to sustain
the beast that drives
the cornerstone of greed
in mindless hunt for “bargains”.
Next – jockeying for position
awaiting the starter’s pistol
explosion of coupon bearers
storming the gates of ….greed
pursuing an empty, endless, need.
Feint right, fake left, bob and weave
position, position, timing
shuffle-step, reverse pivot
head fake and twist, break right
aisle 6, electronics, end zone – score!!!
Crazy dance, fire works,
no flags thrown, no penalties.
Game over. Ice and ibuprofen,
rest and recuperation.
AH, the joy of
BLACK (AND BLUE) FRIDAY.
John G. Lawless
11/21/2017
Oh,doctor I am in a flap
I cannot turn this childproof cap
I cannot take my medicine
So I shall toss it in the bin
The beta blockers make me down
I am in a study brown.
The mini aspirins make me bruise
And my mind is quite confused.
The ibuprofen hurt my heart
Yet without one I cannot start.
The thyroxine has no effect
So now I feel my life is dreck.
The codeine fails to make me high
I'm not addicted, though I try.
I'll have to take a shot of gin
And alcohol will make me sin.
I'll go to parties in a dress
That makes men's hormones more or less.
I'll take a big one home with me,
And give him poison in his tea.
And when I am in jail at last
I'll feel remorse for all my past.
For as I suffer dreadful pain
God has hit me yet again.
It's not enough that I am blind
And suffer terrors in my mind
Not enough that lovers cruel
Give me stick instead of jewels.
Or maybe life does not make sense
Especially when I feel so tense.
Maybe random are my days
and my life has gone astray.
I think that I shall buy a cat
And love it tenderly and chat.
But if my cat gives me a scratch...
I'll light its tail up with a match.
All the world must me obey
Else I'll be enraged all day.
I want my own way all the time.
Other people must conform.
I am here and full of ills
What do you think of these blue pills?
If they take away my heart
That at least will be a start.
Then they can remove my brain
To help me with this damned pain.
Why not kill me right away
Then I'll be from pain astray?
Man In My Head,
You live there–
(here I should say)
but I suppose I don’t need to tell you that.
You’re the one making your space.
You’re forever within the confines of my mushy, distorted headspace;
so I ought to pay you a visit.
Ah, Man In My Head, you’re quite wonderful–
you know that, right?
My puppet–you can’t hurt me if I’m the one controlling you.
You don’t make me sick with shame, regret, disillusionment–not like they do.
My shapeshifter–you morph into different beings, taking on whom and what I need most.
And, that, Man In My Head, is why you don’t have a name.
My comfort–you’re there when I need you; you disappear when I don’t.
But an idea can only soothe someone for so long.
You aren’t like them, Man In My Head,
You’re different!
(because I made you that way)
My guarded heart can open to your gleaming eyes (honey brown today), guaranteeing safety.
I’m daring myself–deluding myself–to believe in you.
Yet–you’re just a dream,
my dream.
And, here I am, waiting.
Working in solidarity with delusions, dreams, deceptions—
contentedly coping and waiting and pining
for you, Man In My Head.
AND YOU DON’T EXIST !
A figment of my imagination, guaranteeing the impossible “safety”,
but never enough to save me completely,
and that’s all that you are.
My single pill of ibuprofen to soothe the pain of a severed limb,
the pollution permeating my body could be purified by your embrace,
But, Man In My Head, you’re not real!
(please disagree with me, please be real)
I wish it were you that could
trace the soft palms of my fragile hands,
caress the warm plains of my forearms,
delicately dancing your fingers over the emerald and mauve running under my skin.
The Others aren’t so nice, Man In My Head.
Man In My Head, you always stay with me.
Thank you for that.
Yet, no matter how much I wish, I hope, I wait,
you are nothing more
–you can’t be anything more–
than
the man in my head.
Running a fever which mocked her
she took ibuprofen and a bath.
Wondering, should she call the doctor,
she decided on a cheaper path.
She called the diner on the third floor,
ordered pizza (she cannot resist ‘em).
Oven-baked in a shop just next door,
“Deliv’ry in thirty.” - What a system!
An earache had now come upon her,
she applied some oil of oregano.
No cash! hopefully her check they'll honor
doorbell rings, duty calls, “It’s DiGiorno!”
Noting the nuanced aroma, guy smiled,
“Is that oregano I smell in New York?
Then he begged for a piece, like a child,
but she chased him from her flat with a fork.
April 8, 2020
My skin crawls as I watch a hand,
disembodied,
reach yet again into the Tollhouse bag.
Bright, artificial yellow. It burns my eyes.
Countless chocolate chips are shoveled down my gullet
as if crumbs to a wretched, starving creature.
I’m only jarred out of my sinful haze by catching si th r of my reflection.
That face staring back at me - I don’t know it.
Dry, lifeless eyes,
the expression of a corpse,
chocolate smeared on the edges of my mouth.
Disgust rises like bile in my throat.
This stranger lives a soft life.
Hours spent lounging by the fire,
fleshy stomach warm and sated,
screen filled with ads and the inane,
I have never known struggle.
The world blazes with fire
and the screams of dying children surround the soul,
so I employ synthetic numbing agents.
Blue light has seared my nerve endings into inactivity
while glucose rots me to my core.
Do my vices truly dim the pain of helplessness?
Or do they simply induce a coma of false innocence
until I’m able to face the world?
“My” face stares back at me,
haunted and hated.
I am vitriol,
bottled up and consumed.
For consumption is the only skill we have left;
purses and devices and anything worth a cent are
boxed up,
framed with silver tongues,
and shoved down our throats faster than we can blink.
And we take the poison,
digesting it like the obedient cattle we are.
Not even thousands of victims can rouse us from our stupor,
willingly chosen to numb the conscience and the void
yawning from self-inflicted purposelessness.
Ibuprofen for the guilt of privilege and powerlessness.
I choke on the silver spoon from which I’m fed these pills
but find I swallow regardless.