Food Poisoning

The chances of food poisoning (while travelling).

The fear of dying from crayfish poisoning
Paralyses the heart, stills the gut,
Freezes the brain more quickly than gulped ice cream.
But those textures, colours and aromas
Are so damn attractive
Hold yourself back
It’s just your juices are active.

While travelling to the ends of the earth
And Europe
Tedious but riveting
Airports, cheap food, staff emptying buckets
While other consumers fill them relentlessly.
Rustling sandwich packs that resist being opened,
With all their artificial might.
I can’t wait for some more legroom in this.
And the toileting arrangements are unfamiliar to me.

Like Chernobyl’s deadly footprint
I witness
A social revolution
Without my inclusion
The chattering classless on annual migration
Pass me by,
Like the love dance of the dragonfly
They fly, those people fly, over and under
Without wings or consequences
For no particular reason.

Strange love but worth a suck
And we don’t hold anything against anybody.
A repeat prescription please
Or maybe something to tease
Just some slow release
For my ongoing crayfish poisoning.
Some of the life from some of the heart
Turn it over
See if it will start.

I suppose I will eventually die of it,
Sometime, somewhere,
Perhaps with a view of palm trees
From the hospital window.
A fashionable drug,
An accessory in this life,
An added piece that I somehow ingested
Like smoking, liver failure or overdosed amphetamines,
Traffic accidents or falling down unfamiliar stairs,
Cancer of the bone, brain or anywhere,
Older but unaware.

After so many years, the young doctor will be amazed,
Remove her glasses, shake her head
Toss her head back and pull her fingers through her hair
And stare at my deathbed results
On a clipboard or pda.
“Poisoned by crayfish”,
It will say.
(Accompanied by rocket), all from the past,
But he’s certainly dead at last.
I guess we must all die of something.

Dirty living things

Getting increasingly drunk
Waiting on the rain
And the football results
Weeding the flowerbeds
Hour by hour by deadheads
This is the window
Here is the door
I am recalcitrant
This is how it pours
Even with something blocked.

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