The diary of a hallucinating in-patient at the Hoon Hospital, on this day one year ago:

I woke up this morning with a head full of verse
And at once I called out to the stationery nurse
“Bring me pencil and paper and pray don’t delay
For I have significant things I must say.
In my dreams I’ve had insights both deep and poetic!”
But the nurse dosed me up with a powerful emetic
And I vomited my breakfast before I’d even eaten
A splurge all eggy and branny and wheaten.
“Lie back,” said the nurse, “Let your ravings cease.
You are in the throes of a terrible disease.
That’s why you’re in hospital, you foolish clot.”
And she felt my forehead and my forehead was hot.
“But where is my pencil and where is my jotter?”
I cried as my forehead grew hotter and hotter
Then doctors swept in and prodded my head
And I let out a groan and sank back on the bed.
But inside my brain the verses came teeming
Of Zeinab Badawi, Anna Ford, and Jan Leeming,
Of television newsreaders no longer seen
Reading the news on the television screen,
Reginald Bosanquet, often drunken and earthy,
Where now we have bumptious Krishnan Guru-Murthy.
Then my head emptied out and I fell into swoon
In my hospital bed in the clinic at Hoon.
So the world must cope somehow without my verse
Is that a blessing or is it a curse?
“A blessing for sure” said a voice stern and grim.
“You’re not Dennis Beerpint, you just think you’re him.”
I woke. It was true. I’m not Beerpint at all.
I turned to gaze at the white clinic wall.
Then the nurse announced it was time for my bath
“By the way.” she said, “Nor are you Sylvia Plath.”