I sit waiting for an epiphainein moment,
holding on to rusted railings and
the arms of chairs in coffee bars.
Clammy hands grip with vengeance to damp fabric,
lashing out with kicks at past advice and
failed advances (in to heaven).
I started convulsing with bottles and solvents
but it was the asthma that did it,
stopping chest muscles from working; pulse, pulse, pulsing
then fasten around my lungs to contract.
I didn't drink for a month after that.
Now I'm drinking whiskey
and thinking back
to the blood, sick, limbs and fat
twisted in a hospital bed.
Waking up to doctors stare
and the pinnacle moment of realisation
when they take out the drip
and plug the soul in.