eating anything, now my mind is like a lift
stuck between two lower levels, unable to
reach rock-bottom yet not ascending again
Between levels all is desultory – vague and
far-off, receding to a series of grey shrivelled
spheres mocking the lovely pearls reflecting
each other in Indra’s holographic heaven
You watched rugby and cricket, channel-hop-
ping to catch glimpses of both; I floated about
like a forlorn ghost or a transparent spectre
lost on the seas of life - trying to translate
But if a book failed to hold my interest, how
could a boring, useless letter from irate tax-
payers focus my scattered thoughts or re-
store my sagging, short-circuiting brain?
It started to rain, totally unexpected, a gift,
making me wish for the ability to feel and
live again, death by allergy à la Agatha
Christie does not hold any appeal
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