In the Hell of the Two-Legged Rats

by Aidan Andrew Dun


Look, a ramshackle
residence on the skyline
burdening the horizontal
plane with its existence:
millions streaming through
its ominous doors.

Welcome to the house
of shifty foundations
sickness is our business
grief our belief:
if you’re travelling
in trouble, stop in!

We’re all sick here
just as on the ocean
when storms attack a ship
everyone’s affected:
here it’s the same, you
just won’t see any waves.

You’ll feel them though as
you reel about clutching
your belly, venting over
friends and strangers:
gamma-rays bursts
cooking someone’s planet.

All souls abandoned
in the clay-valley
here interned under
harsh regimes of pain
struggle on with ugly
subterfuge, double-speak.

All in a bad way
have become a joke:
the unwell of the world in
a not-so-rare-breed show:
welcome to Hotel Malfunction
everyone’s true home!

It’s more mental-clinic
than palace that’s for sure:
look at the breakdown-cases
on the big front-lawn
sunning their neuroses:
illness here a way of life.

We’re talking suppurations
psychological sores:
a plague generated
by subjective imperatives
is currently pandemic
in this vale of angst.

Allow me to regard
your wounds as my own
we’ll share a brotherhood
of disaffection, you and I:
we’re in the sad club of
incarnate fools together.

Let me take your hat
covered with fly-papers
lucky bird-droppings
assorted religious insignia:
I’ll hang it here, sir
with other similar trash.

Think you’re in the
rest-house of all time
no: this is the General
Hospital of Unrecovery
in the Eleventh Hell
of the Two-Legged Rats.

Shmendriks, simpletons
chancers, dumb-animals:
here’s an illustrated
catalogue of stray-dogs:
each of these broken-down
souls is a darkened city;

Torn away each from
perfection remembered
only by some remarkably
wide-awake sufferers:
welcome to the
house of psychodrama.

You haven’t come here
for a weekend-break
prepare your ego
for the burning-ground:
welcome to the house
of disordered men.