I’m currently tripping while writing this. Not from meddling with any pleasurable or illegal narcotics. Far from it.
This is an unpleasant and boring antihistamine high, taken rather foolishly on an empty stomach. It’s had a maddening affect on my mind, as you’ll see from the poem below. I took it as I’ve had an allergic reaction to some insect bites. No idea what it was. I’m guessing garapatas (mites) or fleas. If it were garapatas, it would be a full circle, especially as I was close the same place (geographical location as opposed to place on my body) to the first time I was mobbed by the little bastards, which is at Uyuca (near Tatumbla); the highest peak in the Francisco Morazan. I feel like a meat feast or piñata for bugs at times. I was there to look at land some friends had bought. These are some of the views they will have, as will the bugs (if they stopped chasing me):
Yesterday, the bites swelled and itched like crazy. I’ve two sitting next to each other on my right index finger, above the knuckle, and swelling makes the skin tight on the bone and the finger a little inflexible. I have another on the side of my left wrist, so it bangs off random things in a big unwelcome reminder, making it itch even more. The swelling has deflated since but my student last night said it looked similar to her wrist after she broke it once.
This morning I went to a local chemist. I had lots to do so I went early, only to see it wasn’t going to open until 10. It was 8.30 and there was no point in going home, so I bought a note book, went for a coffee, wrote a prayer and a chapter for my book, as well as this poem. I call it literature therapy. Helps with anger issues. I wrote it after two cups of coffee: the beverage that bursts open creativity in all souls, no matter how furious.
It is inspired by John Cooper Clarke and Spike Milligan. You’ll see why.
The Local Chemist is Shut
There are no good enough excuses for the local chemist being shut.
Think before you speak afore beginning your next sentence with “But …”.
I’ve two bites upon my finger and I think I’m gonna die.
Might as well jump in front a bus for a holy, unheroic goodbye.
Colliding toxins beneath my flesh furiously bash like angry Earth plates;
While hissing pus in blistered globes gleefully oozes, bulges and inflates.
I await these venin-filled volcanos to erupt in a stinging, sulphuric mess;
Those around’ll promptly drown in lumpy pus rivers, I stress.
Molten gasses of blood’ll smother sunlight leaving mankind damned and dead;
Lava-filled skies’ll fall with toxic mites that’ll feed on our decaying heads.
And all this ‘cos the darn local chemist is shut;
I warned you not to begin your next sentence with “but”.