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Forget "99.9 degrees, stable now with rising possibilities.."
101.8 That's bad right? I never get fevers...what the bugger is going on?
last modified Apr 29, 2002 at 20:28
Actually i've been reading Kerouac (yes it seems i need an excuse to read even one of my favorite poets), and in my head i've probably written a million little non-sense haikus this night.
I usually don't display the temperature sign of fever but all the other symptoms..and i always hallucinate.
101.8's not so bad. Fairly high fevers help you get well faster; they stop the buggies from reproducing. If it gets over 102 and still seems to be rising, though, take a fever reducer like tylenol or ibuprofen. If it still doesn't go down, go see the nurse. Also, if you start to hallucinate, get someone to take care of you, 'cause it can be scary. On the plus side, fevers are virtually the only post-adolescent excuse to read Sylvia Plath poems. I suggest you take advantage of it. Ahem:
Fever 103º
Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as the triple
Tongues of dull, fat Cerebus
Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable
Of licking clean
The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tinder cries.
The indelible smell
Of a snuffed candle!
Love, love, the low smokes roll
From me like Isadora's scarves, I'm in a fright
One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.
Such yellow sullen smokes
Make their own element. They will not rise,
But trundle round the globe
Choking the aged and the meek,
The weak
Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging its hanging garden in the air,
Devilish leopard!
Radiation turned it white
And killed it in an hour.
Greasing the bodies of adulterers
Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.
The sin. The sin.
Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.
Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken
Water, water make me retch.
I am too pure for you or anyone.
Your body
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern--
My head a moon
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.
Does not my heat astound you. And my light.
All by myself I am a huge camellia
Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.
I think I am going up,
I think I may rise--
The beads of hot metal fly, and I, love, I
Am a pure acetylene
Virgin
Attended by roses,
By kisses, by cherubim,
By whatever these pink things mean.
Not you, nor him.
Not him, nor him
(My selves dissolving, old whore petticoats)--
To Paradise.
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