Wednesday, January 23, 2013

an ode inspired by a shower gel bottle and my heart

Your limes are so zingy
that they make
my pustules explode
Your limes are so zingy
that they make
my pustules explode

they make my pimples erupt
then this disrupts
the traffic
because of the pus
that is blocking up
all of the roads

the council
gotta hire lorries
gotta hire pus clearing trucks
gotta hire men
with  brooms an shovels
to shovel up
all of the pus


Your limes are so zingy
That when they cleanse my skin
they are the cause of
pus shovelling operations

Your limes are so zingy
that they make
my pustules explode


They took me and laid
My fat, sweaty hairy European body
Out on a cold table,
Because those educated ones,
The trained professionals
Were going to cut me
Whilst I was still alive,
To see the heart inside me.

But, luckily for me,
I was not a would-be conquistador
Carried to the peak of a pyramid
By Aztecs in Teotehuacan,
But another obese patient
Laid out for surgery
In a Harrow hospital

And the cutting edge professionals
Did not remove my pump from me
But they fed a minicam into it
On the end of a thin wire hose
Pushed up along my vein
Via a hole in my leg
And this showed me images of my heart
Pulsating on video screens.

And unlike the eviscerated
would-be conquistador
My heart was not the last thing
That I ever saw

So I can tell you now
That me heart looked like
One of the light shows
That I saw in my misspent youth
Projected on to night club walls

I am a pysychedelic man.
Whose pump still pumps
In spite of years of abuse
Still going
Like a repeatedly crashed car
That shouldn’t really
Still be on the road
But some things in my heart
Remain unseen
Even by the surgeons’ camera
My hate and my deception
My treachery and my depression,
but neither did the minature camera
objectively record
my love
or my compassion

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