I am fighting my moods
and the little fuckers have the upper hand
They gang up,
attack by stealth
over the top, swinging from ropes
dirty knives between their teeth.
“I’m glad you can make light of this”
grinning an unhealthy grin,
breath like a slaughterhouse.
“Fuckface,” says another mood
surlier than the first
“ever smell your own breath?”
I’ve learned that vigorous exercise
is good for keeping these fuckers at bay,
also, being tender with myself and
as mild as I can with others
I’ve been forbidden from exercise
the last few months,
first the asthenia from the poor man’s chemo
(you’d be poor if we charged you the actual price, bro)
weakness that made three flights of stairs a mountain
and now enforced rest after minor surgery,
nothing that will cause blood to flow
to the face.
“So you’ll have a fucking livid knife scar
down the side of your fucking nose,
pussy,” says a mood whose ass could be easily
by a long bike ride.
“but you’re too scared
to take a long bike ride
after so many weeks
now, aren’t you?” says the merciless
“Keep on in this vein all day,”
bland as a random statistic,
“see if we care.
You’re playing right into our hands,
you depressed motherfucker.”
“No need to call names,” I say,
with an exaggerated sniff
turned on a dime
into a determined smirk.
“Speak for yourself, bitch,”
say my ambitions
for the day,
in a rather nasty