Locked In Syndrome

My tight eyes,
Are my hands and and my un-sex,
My fist clenched dribble language,
And my screeching banshee heart.
A stick thin snigger of benefit flesh,
Though never once choked on the gloop-food
Squeezed through the hole in my face,
Where a wired voice is strangled silent.

The second he opens his eyes,
He looks at the telly,
Turns to find last night's curry,
Which he starts eating,
Cursing last night's bad luck.
He didn't get a fuck,
And spent all his giro,
In a nightclub where no one could hear him.
The electronic sounds were too loud.