Urges One To Write In Similar Vein

He was aware of an itch-demand, a transient
scratch less stay the hand and investigate; its
perfunctoryness made more sense blessed in
ignorance. Hola, he sighed, it’s gone again –

But where? Where do itches go to reappear?
The code says no existence without form but
changing form is just the norm, there’s ample
evidence of that. Beware, the thing mutates...

It started in my hair. I scratched while reading
rabid verse on hate & ethnic arrogance, words
which danced like dervishes possessed about
delusion and despair – and moved from there

Shakes his head in mock dismay, I say old boy
the answer’s clear, don’t read it if it irritates,
wear blinkers if you must and bear a cross in
silence; thus your cure is made & all for free

Ignore it, it will go away. How say, by random
movement of the air, perhaps a cleansing fall
of rain, a blast of searing censorship, a bomb,
tame myocardial infarction, traffic accident...

That’s the way; forsake your mind of gravity,
let nature take its course. It’s just an itch. And
that’s the bitch – an irritating itch which nags
the hand and urges one to write in similar vein
© 30 November 2007, I. D. Carswell