“Just sneezed on your back, mate”, I shout in my head.
I hate having a cold, coughing makes me feel wretched and old.
Sneezing followed by wheezing followed by sweet fucking bejeeezzing.
This poem pleases pharmaceuticals:
(in three weeks time my freebies will arrive
And I’ll be thriving on medical ebay sales
and admiring the state of my cuticles.)
Longing for cigarettes and coffee, with only coffee providing relief.
Without coffee I feel my brain degrading and fading
Like the excruciating fools I rub shoulders with day-to-day,
The fools launching trebuches of spit and dog shit.
Smelling of Marmite, fags and, oddly, cat shit.
Smash and grab from the nasal grocer,
Snorting liquid-cabbage when the owner gets closer
Stealing greens five-a-day from my hooter
I’m better being known as a nostril looter.
Drop a pill for your ills
Your ails pail into insniffsnifficance
Failing that stick one up eat snout
That should keep the sniffles out.
And plug the glug of green mud.
You’ll just look like a bit of a twat for a while.
Until the next nose-slugs slide single file
Allowing at least a single private lick of sweet salty bogey
before society demands the “Man Size” Tissue to control the terrible issue.
Coughing, gasping, wretching, fetching up nothing, then something new.
Something borrowed, something greeny-blue.
That new something being a runny and familiar goo
Like the streaks down my sleeve and the drips on the floor and the marks on the handle of the door.
And the splat on the back of you.
Lovely man flu image (with fun article) from HERE