Anxiety

I’ve developed that ‘hunted look’

That certain . . .if it’s wet and a c**t . . .I’ll punt it look

Prussic acid or Hoffman Pils

If it thrills or if it kills

I don’t give a fig

That smoke it

I am yours look

That

I could be a spurious crook look

Worm or vagabond

My lower bowel

Is stressed to give birth

To all which is uncharacteristic

Nihilistic

Hedonistic

And worse

I am at odds with the existential curse

Shall I or shall I not

Hump the vacuum cleaner

Or seek out God

Develop tardive dyskinesia

And contemplatively nod

Help me . . .I am despairing

For I am stricken

With too

Much

Caring.