I haven’t been strutting much of my stuff recently — been hibernating. I don’t like January! Don’t like strutting much to be honest either. And then the other week I decided to get out and about — bit of s strutt, you know and guess what? I got flu — despite the flu jab I get every Autumn, I got flu. Now, Flu is not nice — not nice one bit! Stops you mid-strutt — straight off to bed with you my lass, and oh — here’s some really nasty dreams and painy stuff to keep you busy.  Flu is a BULLY! If you are in any doubt here is how flu is!

I’m lying on an iron grid
with a vice around my head
and someone’s just lit burners
and it’s glowing hot and red.

In my joints tiny explosives
primed, shoot off random pains.
They’re drilling holes into my skull
to suck my coddled brains.

I never knew that memory foam
could feel so much like stone.
My kidneys are both poached hard
but I’m ice through to the bone.

Hey, where did that lake come from
in the corner of the room?
I cry out ‘Why?’ But there’s no reply.
Must be a mute swan.

He turns his tail and swims away,
I’m drenched! My eyeballs twitch.
My knuckles hurt. My molars hurt.
But I can’t tell which are which.

I’m a pitiful heap of twisting bones.
That’s what you get for being a poet.
I’m a clammy mass of infected flesh.
Being a poet is being a witch.

There’s concertina music
screaming in the breeze
four and twenty blackbirds baked
duvet alaska wheeze.

It’s cold, so cold this fire.
They’re freezing me to death.
Cough, cough. Ouch. Cough!
I sit up quick and try to catch my breath.

I need to…no I can’t just now
My will lies down to shiver.
Where’d that swan go? I need to ask
him questions about forever

like am I going to live or die
and will this torture cease?
‘Do you need some paracetamols?’
I whimper a low ‘Yes please.’

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I had plans…Anyway my sole submission this month has been: Bosnian Woman

I like February. February will be a nice little month. See you there.