Virtue Before Death Poem by Martin Lochner

They smoothly rolled me into third level theatre
an acute sense of wanting to observe focused
my eyes on the shiny sheen gloss sealer of the floor
the walls translucently white with smell of spirits and detergents
exuding from it

green masked ninjas surrounding me, their eyes giving not a slight
hint of relief or concern, talking in an extremely foreign language
that reminded me of the carburettor, sparkplug or cam belt lingo
of Bernie’s auto service station, with energy saver halogen haloing
around their heads i slightly felt the sting bitter taste of adrenalin

alarms, sirens beebs shrills as a small printer accelerates speed to
print stats, graphs of my current ebb and flow, “what is it saying Doc, whats
It telling you, i am finished isn’t it”

“I cannot die,

Last month tax and rates was not paid, it’s in my pocket man, Jesus I just want to pay it
Where is my wife! bring my wife, Call her, tell her I am coming home right now, she must
Drop the divorce man I am sorry”

The nurse attendant whispers in my ear: ' relax buddy....only a flesh wound
smiling at the gass mask I thought about the convex swing of A Vietnamese stripper