Laid Solo.

 

Laid Solo.

 

This week, I've been laid so low,

hardly knew which dice was thrown -

it’s humbling, and I felt deep cut

like a Tears for Fears bonus track

from an unreleased side project.

Dissonant, distant, buried in the mix

and thought I'd a few better tricks

than these, even those lazy words

at my command rebel unheard,

seeking new careers in new towns.

Ramadan came, I scarcely noticed,

tooken hold of by a malignant virus

sweating within, sickening the skin,

paling the brow with clammy, thin

frostings of iced-sweat. Bedsheets wet

beneath my streaky-rasher back

and I toiled, labouring long and hard

to seek Nirvana, dreamt of same cars

I was always crashing in, broken glass,

something awful drawn on the carpet.

Standing on The Wall, waiting target

for that sniper’s rifle, well aware

he’d seized his chest in health scare,

by ambulance they’d brought him there

where he’s convalescent. My years

more or less - him short of breath

feeling those tightenings of his chest,

abnormal flutterings of sick muscle,

how thin the covering skin that rustles,

keeping pace with thick blocked valves.

What in the world can we do?

I’m in the mood for your love; you flew

so far, I’m laid solo, out of sound,

out of vision, but above my ground

zero, take wings to speed you home

for we're most ill when we're alone

and don’t you wonder sometimes,

how we'd come back from subterranean?