Zero Patient

 

I saw a bat tonight.
And it didn’t look well.
The zigzag of its flight
was lacking in pell-mell.
 
‘Living in a slaughter house,
bats are my company
with the occasional mouse.
Mostly I just let them be.
 
‘The bat didn’t see me look
being blind, but nevertheless
came to land in the crook
of my hand. In distress
 
‘it dribbled and trailed some spit
on my sympathetic palm,
and dropped dead. I threw it
in the disposal can.
 
‘But alas I forgot
to wipe it off, and for my sins
the bat sickness which I got
has spread to my kith and kins’.
 
Thus, an epidemic begins. 
 
Guerre Vax
 
In bureaucratic limbo
I know what it's like to be a statistic.
‘Don’t call me’, says the recorded voice,
‘I'll call you’. And never does.
My number is zero.
 
The bubble I’ve been put in
free-floats until it bursts on the glass ceiling,
and I’m suspended in mid-air,
wondering how far to the ground
and six feet under.
 
Dans les limbes bureaucratiques
Je sais ce que c’est que d’être une statistique.
“Ne m’appelez pas”, dit la voix enregistrée,
"Je vous appellerai". Et ne le fait jamais.
Mon numéro est zéro.
 
J’ai été souillé
et mis dans une bulle
qui flotte librement. En montant
pour frapper le plafond de verre,
elle éclate. Je suis suspendu,
dans les airs, me demandant
à quelle distance du sol
et six pieds sous terre?

Lockdown Martyr
 
Old People’s Homes are a death-trap
 
I’m a hermit
in the desert.
Am I allowed to pray?
 
Yes, if its silent.
 
I’m a hermit
in the desert
who will bring me dinner?
 
No special deliveries.
‘
I’m a hermit
in the desert
I’ll waste down to the bone.
 
We’ve got to put you away
 
I’m a hermit
In the desert.
I’m in no one’s way.
 
Sorry saint, it’s the care home.
 
I’m a hermit
In the desert,
and not a sinner.
 
Do you have a mobile phone?
 
No. I’m a hermit
In the desert
And I don’t know what to do.
 
Trust us, trust us
 
I’m a hermit
In the desert
And I’m waiting for you.
 
Here comes the ambulance-bus
 
Hallo, Hallo, Are You My Child?
 
We live in a time when trust is a hard ask.
Confronting one another needs a mask.
Faces disappear except for the eyes
The law decrees features are in disguise.
The rational is because for mortals
these traits of self-expression are portals
for the hand-borne germ and flying parasite.
It’s been ordained they’re bandaged out of sight.
In order to get use to the new rules
they are compulsory in nursery schools.
Infants wear cladding on the training pot.
But mothers coming to collect them are not
sure, who’s who. And some sprogs refuse to drop  
their mask. ‘You’re the wrong one’. They’ve found a swap.
 
 
Infox
      
I’m a statistic, count on me
to deliver the powers-that-be
with an alibi for a blunder.
The lie of the land is a number.  
 
Corona kiss
Allowed a hug without hands,
a flutter cheek to cheek
in parallel. It’s a chance
for a smack of lips to bespeak
of butterflies, not a bear
that squeezes the life out of.
The light brush is the turtledove
kiss of tender loving care.
Adam’s Mask
 
It covered the nostrils
But the bridge of the nose.
is bare. When Angel-guards
drag me away. I cry
‘I don’t care. I don’t care
I can breathe through my eyes’.
 
As they pump my chest, I
shout, ‘I’m alive. You’re dead.
I’m human. You are not.’
So, they rip out a rib,
and leave me to give birth
to a woman, Eve. Now
 
I’ve a world of my own
where masks aren’t required.
And face to face, us two
were the origin of
the species that created
the original sin, love.
 
Adam’s Mug Shot
 
A street of masked bandits.
Your money or your life.
No. Not a hold up. It’s
not a knife in their hands,
but watch them: their touch lands
a viral trail of phlegm. 
Let me come clean: no mug
shown, doesn’t mean no bug.
 
The Corona Prince
Emmanuel Macron,
his sailor-suit, ahoy,
has been a bad boy.
 
Too many kisses.
And not for his missus.
She tested a ‘non’.
 
Intimating he might 
have caught the bugger
from his catamite.
 
The official other
sources a leaders’ night
on a long-distance flight.
 
Tell that to his mother.
.
Corona Tyrant
 
Doctor Hola-hoop,
easy to dupe,
but hard to please
should be put in a cage,
and fed chic-peas,
not honorary degrees.
Let corona rage.
 
 
The Young Go Viral
 
I am a corona lout.
What is all the fuss about?
The young must live, the old die.
It’s the natural law. Defy
the dictates of the power-mad,
who lock us in their redoubt.
 
Rejoice in revolt. Be glad.
When the bug knocks, I am out.
When I’m out, the old are in
and don’t answer being a tad
deaf, and slow on their feet. No doubt
they are safe. My crime’s not a sin.
 
Transformations
 
Ondine Alpha
The muddy black mountain-stream
sourced by melting virgin snow,
rests its rush to the ocean
to still with the piccolo
nightingale whose trill is so
pure, the water is washed clean.
 
Ondine Omega
 
Stooped, nose in her mobile phone.
In a crowd she’s all alone.
Talking to herself. Gone the grace.
 A surgical mask on her face.
Eyes down, expression unknown,
So, youth and beauty has grown
into something hard to trace,
a blankness all of its own.
Smile not, I am an efface. 
    
 
Curfew: The Bright Side
 
A half-moon is better than none.
And the other half is yet to come
Some stars are dead, and yet their light
on the earth still sparkles bright.
No clouds. Tomorrow they’ll be sun,
and you can forget the long run.
It’s already happened. See tonight,
some stars’ brightness is in hindsight.