Dazed

Paroles de « Dazed »

Tick-tack, yer head's pure whack,
Tons o’ time, tremblin’, tyauvin’,
ye trailed that twisted, thrawn wee tickle,
Tough, aye,
like a tempest, tucked tight in yer throat.
Ye hack late, ye hack early,
yer hackin’ haws time sideways,
strikin’ like some sorrowful signal bell.

The docs? Dazed.
Pressure: passable. Heat: half-hot. Scan? Squeaky spotless.
— “You'll be aw right,” they try tae tell ye.
But that cough? It kicks back.

Yer maw, all mashed up, grips yer middle:
— “Right, nae more waitin’...
We're off tae yer uncle’s.”

You shiver. Yer uncle —
grim guardian o' grief-filled grounds,
a quiet kind o' cure-man,
crouched at the crook o’ a crooked trail,
sat still in his shoogly tower,
where clovers creep, stalks sprout,
and strange stuff sprouts sideways.

While the sun sinks,
yer rickety ride rattles on rough roads.
Ye cough. Still coughin’.

Uncle opens up
afore any knockin’.

— “You’ve came the wrong century,”
he snaps.

As he sorts some wee vials,
ye say nowt.
He turns.
— “Here, sugar. Sook it.”

Yer maw, sturdy like a steeple,
stares, soft but strong.
You stay silent. You shake.
You stick tae the script.

Flavours flash:
soil, stump, soggy turf...
stormclouds and stanes.

— “Stretch out. Sleep.”

You drop on dull drapes.
As ye drift between daze and dread,
yer dear guardian dares tae ask:
— “D’ye think his dread’ll die down?”

Yer uncle, under breath:
— “Depends on the damn cough.”

You drift.
Deep in yer chest,
that devil cough dances away,
like a web bein’ pulled from the ribs.

Soon, stillness.
Yer chest, calm.
You stretch. You sigh.

Yer maw, meltin’ wi’ mercy:
— “Thank the gods. Cheers.”

But yer skin's still shade-warm.
You stir. You shudder.
Summat’s missin’.

On the shelf, some skinny scrap:
a shakin’ shimmer,
stuck in some steamin’ jar,
like a bit o’ yer breath —
captured, coiled, and kept quiet.

Yer uncle escorts ye, sayin’ nowt,
and shuts the door.