DISCLAIMER: I own neither the concept nor the characters of Star Trek: Voyager. I am receiving all of the fun and none of the profit. Nor do I own "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock"; T. S. Eliot has the honors. I am just borrowing it for a little parody at the Doc's expense.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.

The Lovesong of E. Medical Hologram
By Jillo


Well, let's go then, you and I,
With Sickbay stowed away against the night,
And no patients immobilized in stasis,
Let us go through empty halls and decks,
This woe-begotten wreck
Of lost space-farers of dubious careers
And holographic bars with ersatz beers.
Halls that echo like a derelict Borg cube
Of unimagined fears,
To lead me to the unexamined notion . . .
Oh, not these tired, old romances,
Let's just go and do our dances.

In the bar the couple flits and darts,
Unaware of our breaking hearts.

The stellar dust that trails its fingers along the outer hull,
The stellar stuff that runs its hands along the viewports,
Creeps in crannies of the shields,
Settles in pools along the port nacelles,
Parts its legs for the prow of the little ship,
Seeps through deviations, makes a quick incursion,
And seeing that it was a night of celebration,
Swirls twice around the ship in its immersion.

And indeed there will be time
For the dust that floats along the outer hull,
Reaching its fingers into the impact craters,
There will be time, there will be time
To make a line to counter lines that you hear.
There will be time to program and delete,
And time for all the smiles and kisses
With which such protocol is replete.
Time for you not to be vicious,
And time yet for a hundred newer versions,
And for new excursions and perversions
Before the making of small talk and best wishes.

In the bar the couple flits and darts,
Unaware of our breaking hearts.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Why not me?" and "Why not me?"
Time to wallow in my agony.
With my bald head shining like a dome—
(They will giggle, "Why doesn't he program any hair?")
My uniform, my caduceus on my collar there,
My manner smooth, my humor sharp and aware,
(They will giggle, "How his shiny head is bare.")
Do I want
To be ridiculous?
In a keystroke there is time
For excursions and perversions that a keystroke can erase.

For I have imagined them all, already, imagined them all.
Have imagined the holographic ecstasies,
I have pleasured out my time with fantasies.
I've imagined the orgasms with orgasmic bliss
Upon the holographic tapestries,
So why not be remiss?

And I have imagined their eyes already, imagined them all.
Eyes that lance you with a mesmerizing glance.
And when I am mesmerized, as if in a trance,
When I am entranced, and unable to proceed,
Then how shall I propose
To bumble about and stumble on my own two feet?
So how should I then dance?

Shall I say I have sung great arias and duets
And acted out the drama of deaths bold
Of urbane men from Qo'noS and from Earth?

I should have been a disembodied voice
Blaring from the speakers of computers cold.

And the wedding party goes so merrily,
Serenaded by old music,
Sappy, droll, and without merit,
Lingering in the hallways, mocking you and me.
Shall I, after smiles, congratulations,
Have the wherewithal to fulfill the obligations?
And though I have grinned and borne it, grinned and smiled,
Though I have seen my head black and bushy with photonic hair swell,
I am a sore loser, and fuck this all to hell.
I have seen my holographic matrix sputter,
And I have seen Doc Zimmerman shake his head and mutter,
And in truth, I am a fraud.

And would it have been any fun at all,
Would it have been fun, really,
After the cake-cutting, the first dance, and the toasts,
After the cheers, after the wine glasses, after the speeches,
All this, and so much more.
It is impossible to contemplate it fully,
It's as if my atoms are flung to outer reaches.
Would it have been fun, really,
If Seven, taking up her bride to the song's refrain
And turning to the dance floor, should say,
"You are stepping on my train.
Doctor, please remove your foot from my train"?

No! I am not Harry Kim, nor can ever be;
Am a leading man, one that must do
To be a headliner, get the girl or two,
Advise the Captain, much to say, you'll find,
Self-important, sharp of wit and mind,
Fastidious, supercilious,
Full of grand passion—never crass.
Indeed, at times insufferable—
At times, it seems, an ass.

I am bored, I am bored.
I shall sing old operettas, long ignored.

Shall I take up yoga? Do I want a mahareesh?
I'll replicate a floor mat or stretch upon a beach.
I have wondered what it felt like to reach and reach.

Don't think I can't do it, capisce?

I have seen them, standing statues, on the mats
Holding the poses of adepts stock still
As the muscles ripple and quiver, strong of will.

We have lingered in the juice bars at the beach
By nymphets surrounded, bare and red
When computer voices call us, not yet dead.

The End

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