The Blind Chiropractor by A.E. Plastic
A.E. Plastic July 12, 2009 at 8:45AM Dr.Staisier turns to me,
as if lassoed out of the blue;
then, stubbly and purposive,
he taps out my particulars
on a laptop which dutifully
regurgitates them
in greyed-out tones:
age 58, married,
sedentary, non-smoker,
academic, no medication
except for Sertraline.
The consulting room
is devoutly anhedonistic,
the only mitigation
an ormolu clock
screwed ostentatiously
to the mantelpiece
(is the good doctor on his guard
against light-fingered patients?).
At his bidding,
I prostrate myself
on a theatre-of-war trestle
and his hands reach out
to that obliterated communion
of muscles, bones, nerves
ribs, sinews and cartilage.
Man was designed to crawl
not sit he tells me
holding up a plastic spine
to prove the point,
and prescribes daily
acts of contortion
sure to straighten me out
I surrender my platinum card
to the blonde cashier
taking in her evacuated smile
and flesh infinitely silkier
than I will ever broach again
(it tickles me to imagine
that, inexplicably, Dr. Staisier
has an eye for the ladies).
Reader Comments (7)
nicely put. and all without anaesthetic. the description of the receptionist ('broach', 'evacuated') is delightful..... only a blind man could keep an ormolu clock.
The humour is sharp as a razor, as per. The final stanza falls a little flat for me, though I am for the idea of ending on a thought of Dr. Staisier when the gloves come off, as it were.
It's suitably devoid of sentiment, like Staisier's inventory of the N's characteristics.
James
Witty as ever, but I think you could trim in a few places. The lines about the laptop, for example, don't really add to the poem and feel quite sluggish. I think you could lose a few adverbs too, but we've been there before . . .
I don't think "he tells me" is supposed to be italicised . . . ?
B.
~
There are indeed a lot of words in the piece, creating a prose-ish flow which, while enjoyable, causes me to bother at the myriad line breaks.
Some wordiage, the title sets up.
It does seem that there might be one more semi-precious nugget to pan at the culmination; I don't know what, but thoughts occur like more strongly relating doctor and patient as men "seeing" the world as men might, or something related to the "designed to crawl", or ?
Though I might've made the dog's breakfast, as I've done before and am perfectly content to do again, my pen's first pass through went sumfink like this:
----
Dr.Staisier turns to me
lassoed out of the blue
stubbly
purposive
tapping out my particulars
in the greyed-out tones of a laptop
58
married
sedentary
non-smoker
academic
Sertraline
The consulting room
is devoutly anhedonistic,
the only mitigation
an ormolu clock
screwed to the mantelpiece
(on the look out for light-fingered patients?)
I prostrate myself
on a theatre-of-war trestle
and his hands broach
that obliterated communion
of muscles, bones, nerves
ribs, sinews and cartilage.
Man was designed to crawl
not sit, he tells me
(a plastic spine proves his point)
prescribes daily acts of contortion
sure to straighten a man out
As I surrender my platinum card
to the equally blonde cashier
her evacuated smile
flesh infinitely silkier
than I will ever broach again,
it tickles me that Dr. S
clearly has a stand up eye
for the ladies.
i really think it was better when he wrote it.
As is usually the case, for I'm always up for being wrong, especially when I'm having a good time doing it.
you are so much more tolerant than i.