Paul J Penton – Songwriter

A small steel finger of ice slivers into my gum, set to numb down, dumb down the pinkness for the rupture that’s about to occur. I’m sitting back looking up to an over head lamp in a slight shade of off white almost yellow. Doctor Danny hangs above me with a crescent moon mask – wouldn’t want to breathe on the patient now would we? 

A few probes with the scraping tool garners no response from me so he begins. This is not  going to be ‘neat and orderly’, no pothole being filled here by a passing road crew. We’re talking about digging a sewer here, a full on World War One trench system inside my mouth. When this suspect has been extracted, this spy who has infiltrated the rear of the jaw line, there’ll be a bomb crater. I tense up in the chair as he starts to hack away, some sort of pliers sail just under my nose and my heart is gripped in by fingers of glassy fear. Breathing becomes quick and laboured as the device graunches around the terrorism suspect. He calls for reinforcements and the two of them are yanking away on the modern day version of the torture rack- though I don’t feel much pain.  It seems there’s a thunderclap as the pliers come flying out of my mouth. All I taste is blood, blood, blood. Dr Danny whips in with a swab or something and it abates. He sews up the hole with some dissolving stitch-work  and I am told to take some strong panadol or Neurophen or something. When the aching will begin I am unsure, but the violation has occurred and my body – injured -will be looking for revenge shortly I am sure.