I'd write, but my synapses
are treacle slow in the heat.
My brain stirs, relapses
into torpor; the slow beat
of the fakir's pulse oozing
through swollen veins,
large not just from boozing
but other heat-alleviated pains.
Maybe a rope-trick escape
from this writer's bed of nails
will come - if I truly scrape
the barrel and describe what ails
me most, besides the lack of inspiration
that brings about this verse of desperation.

Comments
insertponceyfre... | July 14, 2009 - 14:52
air conditioning? : )
chuck | July 14, 2009 - 14:57
Punkah wallah?
Ewan | July 14, 2009 - 15:03
Don't have either!!!
insertponceyfre... | July 14, 2009 - 15:53
chuck you are showing your age!
artisus | July 14, 2009 - 17:57
Very good and so honest.
Sikander | July 14, 2009 - 19:23
Gorgeous word selection, making for a truly textural poem.
Lovely work.
sarah wilson | July 14, 2009 - 20:35
I do agree with Sikander - and I love the structure of this poem. sarah
chuck | July 14, 2009 - 22:24
Times have obviously changed for Britons abroad IPNH. In my day we'd send coolie chaps into the mountains for ice. Even had dancing girls with fans.
insertponceyfre... | July 15, 2009 - 12:19
you're making me laugh chuck - coolie chaps and dancing girls, my arse
whiskey | July 15, 2009 - 13:41
Looks like you've cured your block, Ewan - it's great! :-)
Lennie | July 17, 2009 - 08:27
Good Work!, first time ive commented on your work, but I have read some other pieces of yours and thought they where really good also.
Lennie
threeleafshamrock | July 18, 2009 - 10:41
Nice one Ewan; I feel the same except it's bloody freezing here.
Chris