The woman next door is howling with pain.
It is 3 in the morning.
Clearly she is doing it harder than me.
I went in ten days ago
with a high fever
and within 24 hours my frail craft
had sailed off into the South Pole
where I was hit with pneumonia
and racked with pain.
It was Scott of the Antarctic meets ‘The Thing’.
I’m in calmer waters now.
Five days with minor ailments.
They’ve brought me into dock.
Going home today.
*pic courtesy of pinterest
Brutal.
Yesterday was brutal.
It was my ‘Good Friday’,
my ‘Garden of Gethsemane’.
I thought of Jesus
up there on the cross
and upbraided myself for even
thinking of the comparison.
But my time on the throne
took some beating.
It was my ‘Calvary.’
They warned you about this,
that chemo does play havoc
with the excretory system
but this was brutal
absolutely brutal.
It was right that it happened on Good Friday.
the day of suffering.
Stranded.
I don’t want to be stranded
like Robinson Crusoe
on an island
of pain
with no rescue in sight
another weekend;
so, doc,
can you fill out
the prescription again
that one with real bite?
Is it any good pleading? Thompson says.
For your life? Not really.
But you can’t just toss me aside like a dog carcass, not after all I’ve done for you.
You were more than serviceable, Hunter admits. But you’ve served your purpose. You can’t argue with me.
Will it be painless?
Yes.
Well, get it over with then.
One minute, Hunter says.
He reaches into his satchel and pulls out his laptop.
Finish your drink, Hunter says. Out with the old and in with the new, he smiles, keyboarding fiercely.
He taps the delete button.
And with that, Thompson is gone.
Beth put up a post yesterday about the joys of walking, not just the health benefits but what you come across on the way.
Here are some of the things I came across:
water tumbling over stones
a brindled dog all skin and bones
frogs jamming in baritone
the bumblebees’ gingery drone
horses cantering on their own
one jet black, the others roan,
sad girl sitting all alone
hunched over her mobile phone
Thought
you’d be
my rock,
he said,
upon which
I could build
my future;
but you turned
into a sharp-
edged reef,
now I’m all scarred
& sutured
*pic by Tengyart on Unsplash
When I get burned
by love
spurned
like an old glove
ghosted
I want to be
a pachyderm
an elephant
or hippo
thick-skinned
numb
but for an artist of any kind that’s
recklessly dumb.
All the poems about yesterday are nostalgic
As are the songs.
My mother called Macca’s ‘Yesterday’ mawkish.
But my yesterday was shit.
If yesterday were a punching bag I’d pummel it
To a pulp.
There are some things like the Holocaust you can’t
Say anything good about.
Yesterday was like that.
Sometime in the Future it might be possible
To say something good about yesterday
But it’d be a stretch.
I try writing a serious poem about a relationship break-up
About how gutted I feel
I even get in a few good metaphors
But then it starts going off the rails
The clown in the closet wants to come out and play.
I try to shut him out
But he plants his foot in the door
And before I know it
He’s taken over
pouring out puns, profanities,
double and triple entendres
A real word-acrobat.
The poem’s a mess but he’s having fun.
and so am I.
What the heck!
We horse around a little then get into it.
I just can’t help myself.
Does my comfort discomfort you?
What would you have me do?
Lie on a bed of nails?
Put tacks in my shoes?
Quite early in life I was labelled a hedonist. I craved comfort the way some people craved adventure. It was my natural state. I mostly landed on my feet, things fell into place. This would annoy some people. I could see why but should I create a prickly existence for myself so others feel more at ease? I was feline. We had a cat who liked nothing better after a meal than to curl up on the lid of the rubbish bin and soak up the sun. I am like that though I prefer a mattress to the lid of a bin. But it does come with a cautionary tale:
Hedonist
Look at that little hedonist
Curled up on the bin
Better watch out the rubbish van
Doesn’t tip him in
John Malone 