Is how my shit smells nowadays
and how I smell myself it seems
in this phase of my hormone disaster
and medics’ needling remedies
to even up the ballast of my chemical distress –
a changed demographic of gut flora,
a Nantucket sleigh-ride of the senses,
endless steroid PMT.
We all are casseroles of proteins,
controlled by clever little lumps of flesh –
those complex tissues called our glands,
on-board computers, naturally.
I wonder at their interaction
and how subtly they converse –
fantastic when in harmony,
and, when not, a whole lot worse.
If I should have a transplant for my sick one
from some stiff who’s not like me,
would I take on their persona
in a horror film reprise?
Are we only meat stew that’s been fooled
into believing we are free
or do our histories stand against
these mood-dictating factories?
rs 12-14.5.13