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I was in Oxford today for SAlly Purcell's Memorial Service. Which proved to be a very turgid Latin Mass. Bored me to tears. Then we repaired to the Kings Arms for the afternoon, where she used to work as a barmaid. Names: John Heath-Stubbs and Eddie Linden, Val WArner, Kit Wright, William Oxley, Fred Beake and various Oxford academics. A very sad occasion. She was only 53. Some leukeamia cancer of a very rare breed. But then her four books are special. I think she partly derived her vocabulary from Charles Williams. I was told to burn the last poem I posted so I determined to rid myself of more existentialist angst and scribbled a couple tonight. Been playing around with them in my head all day. Good clean fun. Enjoy. ....... Again In Intensive Care As I realised that I was going to live I wrote a note to my surgeon: `Why did you save my life? Now I will have to go back home And suffer once again.' I don't want to live And I don't want to die. Medicine Every morning I swallow my pills. The pink capsule lets me drink my beer. The blue tablet stops my blood clotting. The red and green capsule thins my blood. The orange tablet controls my blood pressure And minimises my erections. Or is that just old age? The cherry red vitamin pill is just for fun. And I have my monthly injection of depot To keep the schizophrenia away. God bless the NHS. %%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%