A Caring State

For Embolism

It hadn’t seemed particularly unusual
until he explained the mog bore the title
of embolism,

and probably became an embolism,
shacked up for posterity
on the twenty-sixth floor
with his manic-depressive Goth of an owner
and a neighbourhood of pit-bulls – though

I suppose

there wasn’t anything particularly unusual
about that: the pit-bulls having mauled each other
and half of the juvenile population of the estate
were allegedly all born-again vegetarians
receiving regular blood transfusions and psychotherapy
care of Jobseekers’ Allowance.

Moss Side had never seen such a fall in benefits claims.

The government celebrated.
The government started breeding pit-bulls
as part of its back-to-work-or-die scheme.
With a bit of luck they’d shift the debt by 2014;
be in the black
with enough spare cash
for ministerial pocket money and a £10 HMV voucher
for every A&E department, as a show of goodwill.

The suture business had never been so good;
the average waiting time now up to 5hr 19 min,
and that was Monday morning.

For Embolism, this was not such good news:
the Goth, for fear of losing his puss to the pit-bulls,
never let him stray beyond the grid of the balcony,
sunlight barred at each and every slit in the stonework,
‘til the mog was forced to raid the bathroom cabinet
for anti-depressants,

a permanent supply of Kitty-Kat on tap
along with homo sapien mood swings
as black as his fur arrangement
being about all he had to look forward to.

Until the day he overdosed.
On Kitty-Kat.
Contracted a vicious strain of BSC
and committed Hara-kiri on the corner railing.
Not surprisingly the embolism vanished,
as did all the pit-bulls who dined at his expense.
The government mourned.

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