Wednesday, 14 January 2015


I wash my hands with brillo pads,
removing all those baked on stains
     and too much skin.

‘Lady MacBeth at two o’clock!’
the cry goes up. I shall not wear
     white gloves again.

A Catholic priest is much excited.
‘Stigmata wounds!’ she shouts, and phones
     the latest Pope.

‘The latex Pope?’ I clean my ears
out with an awl, while trying not
     to lose my grip.

While trying not to lose my grip,
I almost lose my hearing for
     a second time.

The nurse at A and E suggests
I make no mention of my eyes
     in any poem.

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