There's new things I can’t do like walking or working
but, see: my book’s flying
I’m not doing housework or cleaning or cooking
but it’s fucking selling
There’s no real connection, but it feels like a tradeoff
a bargain with – who? - someone?
I’ve written nowt decent for – what? - three months?
fuck this interregnum.
Codeine for the fucked back; it smooths me a little
but smothers as much
Drained of motivation, a fight to stay level
but can’t give enough
A waste of this nowhere, unable to battle
toward what I want:
Appointments ahead, Joe, so wait for the phonecall,
and keep your head up
People are shocked when they see me. I’m shorter
than I ever was
Some lose weight: I lost height. Oh how truly funny
a fractured back is
I’m waiting for respite. Stability. Something.
I’m fragile. I rust,
But my book is selling. It just won’t stop soaring:
my spine crumbles, dust.
