I fear that that the plague under the skin,

first suffered as I entered the twilight of being considered

young, has returned as the itch of skin flares

and erupts like the seeded grumblings of Vesuvius

as her townsfolk gathered in blissful ignorance.

I am exhausted, yet words continue to flow

and they mock the carrier, taunting that somewhere

under the surface, next to the silvery fish like scales

that threaten to burst

and pulse and spread across my body once more,

causing anger and confusion as the pain in my back

screams bloody murder,

case closed, bag him, dispatch him

and may he rot in Hell, those words, those simple

joys of passing sentence

will be denied past the beauty of a poem.

 

Dead beat,

for surely I am but both,

fatigued and bushed, mentally strained

beyond reflection but also in the eyes of those

who never saw me run like tomorrow

would not arrive, now consider to know me

as they believe I sleep unjustly.

 

Forgive the vernacular, pardon the language

excuse the Anglo Saxon and please

exonerate what comes next

but as you can see I am fucked

with being fucked,

tired and unworthy, tired

and looking to understand

why man lives past forty when he can barely lift a finger,

a middle one with pitted nails and knuckle

dusted with dull, meaningless ache, I will swallow my pride

and keep on keep buggering on

for in that I piss on the chips of the Doctor

with no formal training who sits in

Government and looks upon the poor

as the great unwashed, as skivers and layabouts,

as his personal backside to be cleansed,

he may be a rich man but he is no

better, skin diseased, third spine less,

stomach ulcerated and possibly the one to blame for it all,

than I.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015