A case of dyslexia.

Last year a question mark
hung over my health.
Over the summer term,
I was subjected  to acute and grave accents.
It seemed that a bullet point
had passed through my index finger,
becoming lodged in my spinal column.
This was a case of Dyslexia.
I was given a script, classified,
then moved to the editorial ward.
My writing came to a full stop.
Fortunately, a rather bold-faced,
freelance surgeon managed to
insert a file into the margin of
my spine, bypassing the literal artery
and hacking away the bullet point.
Since he had decided that mine was a
lower case he left me on a billboard,
covered in a broadsheet
and hooked up to a strap-line.
I regained consciousness in
the glare of the headlines.
After hypertexting for a while,
I calmed down.
Eventually I slipped into a comma,
ending up with a semi-colon.
It had been reported
on the message board
that my tabloid gland
was hyped-up, that I had
narrowly missed a deadline
in the gutter press but that,
after a further operation
and two cuttings
to remove hard copy,
I was feeling just
CAPITAL.