Tuesday, 15 December 2009

As predictably as Christmas itself, I'm sick.
It's OK.
You draw the drapes, turn off the phone, sip Lemsip and whisky, sleep for a day or two, listen to the sounds from outside and the ticking of the radiator.
You shiver and shake sometimes. Realized it first with a cold sweat in the Misty Mountain yesterday noon- running errands. It must have been the brats at Sundays family party- with their germs.
I will sometimes rise and watch Columbo.
I reach for books and put them back again
But when you're ill- Bukowski is best- he wrote good poems. Ones with lines like
'gravy barks like a dog' and the paper is always fine.
He's very fond of animals- not so keen on people.
Gravy can bark like a dog.

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