Treasure Island

Sandy Player


Doctor's Smoke Jar


They've put me back together again.
Staples and paper making up for skin,
Each perscription another dry and thin sheet.

The doctor hangs his blood flecked white apron,
His angel suit put away, and he's that man.
The epidermis he transferred is already peeling off, like a napkin.

But I am above men and cats,
You bees that make your hives then sting trees.
I am a sort of wasp-like thing.

A blue mutant wasp whose sting never sticks,
I am left with more unused venom after every attempt;
My brothel where I frenetically infect myself.

I sit on the wood-wormed bench outside it
And slip my eyes into the pages of a catalogue.
They always said I had large pupils.

There is nothing in it that works, my! I've tried.
Now I cannot afford to buy a grave
But here and there the publisher smuggles a new section or page.

Those pages don't glide off quickly like that doctor's,
They fit snug like the benignant hangman's rope
To where my inside used to rent.

My need is just a lighter, or a forest fire;
Heat like that from a mother's sickbed.
Then I can laugh the last word

As they spin scalpels
And an oxygen mask to put the smoke into
A jar on the operating table.

Submitted: Friday, February 01, 2013
Edited: Monday, March 11, 2013

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Comments about this poem (Doctor's Smoke Jar by Sandy Player )

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  • Charles Monroe (1/4/2014 5:06:00 AM)

    “Medi-Cal Babes”
    Jars remind the kind that smoke
    Greenish clouds of skunk-ish hope
    Lemon colored ribbon cutter
    Imagine as if Lennon uttered.
    The porcupine Doctor with minimal vision
    Certified EncyclopediaTrition
    We now have mustered effort
    For the forming of our
    Beloved vagabond Peasant Club
    A pleasant hub with beach regalia
    Where records play on Sandy Players
    We play Moon Dog and then Mahalia
    In amber gangster paraphernalia
    Those we've dumped in love endeavors
    Claiming to be ours forever...
    Tat for tit thou calm inventions
    Marketed for common vengeance
    Mta bus Compton Benches
    Or beneath the London Bridges
    Must we all dissolve in difference?
    As Excedrin’s in Merlot
    Infrared the canon's fragrance
    Or the Doc with jarred prescriptions
    It’s so clear to see no difference
    When we've had the Doctor's smoke.

    P.X
    (Respectfully Inspired) (Report) Reply

  • Amber Moon (3/17/2013 7:13:00 AM)

    hello, it's really nice that you messaged me on my poems, iv'e only just joined the site and it's wonderful that already someone has read them and understood them. thank you. i think your poems are great, they have lots of depth.
    i particularly like this poem 'Doctor's smoke jar'.
    i couldn't send you a message, so i just commented, hope thats ok.
    - maria (Report) Reply

Read all 3 comments »

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