What bodily fluids are left us? A poem

What bodily fluids are left for us?

I want the metaphor too!

(He shouts in a shrill voice, regretting it because of its lack of irony and full-hearted, yet seemingly juvenile ring.)

What are our cucumbers, and lemon juice? What is our human drip?

(He continues.)

Blood? It’s been sucked dry, like another fluid. Dry like vampires spittle.

Sweat, leaves a taste of work versus pleasure, power versus slavery.

Tears. They drench our pages with forgotten love, or some other romantic sadness.

(Oh Gosh!)

Ironic to many. Often scoffed at. Because we would rather not remember.

(Yuch! Another trashy… weakness? A romance novel, loved but not ironically.)


Urine?  Vulgar. Wet though smelly, like a tramps seat left behind in the metro.

The smell lingers there, just like something stale, a little embracing, like last seasons joke, only just now understood. Or a joke understood too well.

It still sticks, that stink. But the thought of the tramp is gone.


All we are left with, it seems to me, is stomach acid.

Covered with dissolved tums, or a glass of milk. Perhaps a sip of water.

The ulcer will survive beyond that fluid though.

We’re just hiding behind our discomfort with our lack of likes and dislikes, cynics that cannot fake the genuine.

There is still laughter. A little spittle! A little trickle, when we laugh so hard we cannot help it. A wet patch, where others cannot see.

There is joy still. But what is its liquid?

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One Response to What bodily fluids are left us? A poem

  1. W. R. Woolf says:

    Almost everything has been written before, the trick is to write it in a new way.
    I think this poem does that rather well 🙂

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