Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Infection


I’m sorry, mate.
There’s a hole in your soul
And it’s showing.
It’s glowing in the dark
Without you knowing.
Don’t bother with the zip
Or the heel through your sock –
It’s flowing.
It’s running amok
Like an avalanche
Spreading through your veins,
It’s snowing.
Like tiny little flakes,
It’s settling;
It’s meddling
With your dreams.
It’s amazing –
You’re lazing about
After last night’s rout
At the old hack’s shack
Where the tentacles sprout
Near the table at the back
That you retched on,
And they latched on
To the damp wooden musk
In the hours after dusk.
And, they’re growing…
Oh they’re growing!
On the floor, out the door,
On the collar of the wastrel,
In the tune of the minstrel,
Wafting with the breeze,
Freezing in the sneeze
Of the suit who wouldn’t glance,
The skirt who wouldn’t dance –
They who took a chance
Not knowing
You were stowing
All their hate away
In the mirror of your heart –
That heart
You burned down in rage
In a shimmering,
A glittering tirade
That no one ever saw
Or heard
Or cared for.
I’m sorry, mate –
I was there, too,
In the neighbouring loo
When the shot rang out
And the blood gushed out,
Reaching beneath
To mix with my fear:
You didn’t hear
My retching.

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