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When dancing, lost in techno trance,
arms flailing, gawky Bez.
Then find you snagged on frowns
and slowly it dawns,
you're jazzing to the bleep tone
of a life-support machine,
that marks the steady fading
of your day old baby daughter.
And when midnight sirens lead
to blue-flash road mash
stretchers, covered heads
and slippy red macadam
and find you creeping 'neath the blankets
to snuggle close a mangle bird
hoping soon you too will be freezer-drawered.
Then welcome.
Mmmmm....
Blue chemotherapy wig.
Welcome.
In Jam.
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