I Slide On The Surface

It’s not very clever to eat homemade lasagna and afterwards

die in disgruntled discomfort which changes the world into a

meaningless gray blob while I float around, a lost waif feeling

sorry for myself, my head is shrinking and pushing my veins

and sinuses into a painful huddle and my eyes cannot focus

so that I’m technically blind, psychologically a psychopath and

emotionally retarded, some medications offer an escape but at

an extortionate price: for every bit of relief my eyes grow as dry

as the desert and burn as if there is sand in them, going down

the rabbit-hole of pain-relief is not on, so I slide on the surface

of meaningless idiocy while suffering quietly…

But washing on the line is demanding attention and if I want to

be brave, there is ironing to be done, in order to carry out these

duties I must combat the growing pressure in my head, back to

the drawing board, sinus pills might give symptomatic relief and

allow me to get the washing in and take it from there: why should  

I be allergic to Worcestershire sauce and pasta and life become

hell because I found the lasagna so pleasant on my palate - did

I choose this as punishment for past sins or a means of learning

to reincarnate as a better human being next time round; maybe

to make the choice to remain non-physical for all eons to come?