Poem #2,569 | Cursed hours of brain scans

Cursed hours of brain scans
in wards [again all lies] – I’m
that tested body [my cost &
weight on our NHS – pounds
of flesh & more or less exact
or not] – I ain’t good ‘nough
to offer a solid base – failure
to keep it up for auld loves a
loose problem [reflecting as
their own lust goes wrong] –
I’ll deny my told disabilities
& sort love’s short-comings –
I never get to see my scans –
inside shots of grey matters
beyond my education grade
[& I will conjure a diagnosis]