Will I say?

When my number is up
and I lie helpless on my mobile
state of the art electric bed,
will I mind if they call me “darling”?
When I have lost control of my bowels,
wear pads in my pants, a tube on my dick,
my piss in a bag down the side of the bed,
will I mind being called “sweetheart”?

 
Will I mind having my pants pulled down,
my arse wiped by a teenager in uniform?
What will I feel lying stark naked while
she lifts my balls for a bed wash,
removes the sheets I have soiled?
Will I care when I fart in her face,
and burp while she inserts a straw
between my dry lips, to ease the passage
of those putrid pills I don’t have
the muscle to swallow?

 
When they have rolled me from side to side,
side to side again, creamed my crack,
brushed the shit from my nails,
squirted stuff in my armpits,
stuffed my arms into pyjamas,
done my buttons, lifted my flabby legs,
socked my swollen feet, shaved my double chin,
talked down to me in practised platitudes,
covered me up, patted me down,
and then ask – “how does that feel?”
If I can still speak, will I say how I feel?
will I say how,
it actually,
fucking,
feels?

 

John Ling, aka Juicy John, having spent ten years working with autistic kids,  has learnt lots of ways to annoy people in charge. He now spend my days (seriously) in conflict resolution, and sending up all sorts of people in his writing.

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