In the Heat of the Day

I'd write, but my synapses
are treacle slow in the heat.
My brain stirs, relapses
into torpor; the slow beat
of the fakir's pulse oozing
through swollen veins,
large not just from boozing
but other heat-alleviated pains.
Maybe a rope-trick escape
from this writer's bed of nails
will come - if I truly scrape
the barrel and describe what ails
me most, besides the lack of inspiration
that brings about this verse of desperation.