Getting On, BBC Four
Anila eats cupcakes, waits for ward rounds,
She sleeps with paperbacks. Gerontius
Had flocks of angels, was hymned o’er bounds
Of life; ushered from impious
Earth in flock, by cutting iPad, spreadsheet
& tissue shepherds, the Anilae.
Roll the dead skin to ball, waywardly eat,
Consider long waves under nurse’s eyes.
There’s no moment here less than wholly right,
& none without deep sounding vibrations,
Osbourne, Cameron, Lansley & Hunt’s midnight
Deathsong a strain, with glancing orations
On the state of national health running through,
This an humane elegy, & rageful too.