My immune system’s distracted

I am afflicted by a malady  once more

So, with   King Alfred, I lounge on the floor.

My immune system’s distracted;

My kidneys uncorrected

I never heard such complaining before .

 

Alfred has gone home for his tea

But no-one is here to feed me

My appetite is gone

And empty my pan

How can  such misfortune be?

 

Bereavement is  a  truly great trauma

One might say, it’s a personal tsunami

i  could commit suttee

and burn  my own bootie.

But my religion says it  don’t allow me

 

Yet who wants me  at this stage ,do you think?

I ponder whilst opening the Quink.

Alfred’s my lone lover

Men never bother

.A tear fills my eye and I blink.

 

Shall I  merchandise    myself in   Soulmates?

Will  men flinch when  they come to my gate

As I hobble to the door

Saying,Wittgenstein,more?

Is the  Tractatus , as a  poem ,out of date?

 

i can just see the Guardian blind dates

Pairing me with a man called by fate

To rate me out of ten,

After stealing my pen

And posting my photo on “Late”

 

Or for political correctness a female

Denim dungarees are   on  sale

I’ll look lovely in those

from my hammer to my toes.

I just hope the  Great Judge gives me bail.

 

 

Perhaps I can become a third sex

A phallus grafted onto my vest.

So I will suit either/ or

Who may love and adore

My eyes which appear singularly  blesssed

 

Now I have to confess being re-covered

Would suit me quite well as ‘i have suffered

Pain from my skin

Exceptionally thin

I wonder  if one can also be re-mothered?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

t

 

 

 

 

.