I'm sat here in this library
On station number four
not the kind with trains and shit
and I've been sat here once before.
This station has a network filter
so I can't look at certain sites
one's with words like Donkey Come
Blue Tits and Wank and Shite.
But I guess I have to make the best of things
and just do what I can.
And try to ignore fart arse next to me
and next to her, the coughing man.
I know people get sick all the time
but it's really not much fun.
So I'd like to stay at station four
not station H1N1.
So now I turn to poetry
as I often do
when I have to escape from boring stuff
and things that make me blue.
I would love to say I'm being productive
but I know that isn't true
the only thing that I'm creating
is pointless, wordy poo.
And I really am not proud of that-
the whole thing with the wordy poo.
I really should be more wordy.
I just don't feel in the mood.
So I'm sat here in the library
trying not to get sick,
thinking of beating up the coughing guy-
with a candle-stick.....
Saturday, 18 December 2010
Unfinished 1
Mum! Dad! Come on let's go!
Wake up. Look outside.
There's snow!
At least I think there's snow?
I'm colourblind to greens,
so it could all be lawn out there, who knows?
Come on! Wake up.
It smells cold out there.
We can play and have fun.
I'll get my lead from downstairs.
Actually that's tough, it hangs on the hook.
Hey dad, wake up, get my lead
Please don't make me beg
I mean plead.
Dad! Mum! That's it, a leg.
I'll grab it and pull
If that doesn't work, I'll try the head.
Finally. We have movement.
He gets up, steps on squeaky ball.
I put that there.
He looks down on me-
he's tall.
I'm less tall.
I always look up to him.
It gives me a bad neck some days.
Dad showers while I pace the floor.
He marks his territory in the bathroom
so I just pace a little more.
I can wait
The snow won't run away.
It usually lasts weeks or more
in dog years anyway.
I scratch my collar
argh-this is a good one.
You can't beat a good scratch-
followed by a long run.
DAD! Come on!
That's it, he's ready
Coat on, we're out the door.
It IS snow! Not lawn.
Wicked.
It melts on my nose
and tickles my toes.
And there's snowmen to pee on all day.
So we head to the park
where I hear other dogs bark
sounds of joy and happiness and play.
Happy chat of chasing things, leaping snow and ice covered fur.
Except for the terrier from number 4
who whines of some inhumane procedure-
That the vet has in store
for him next week.
Poor kid.
Wake up. Look outside.
There's snow!
At least I think there's snow?
I'm colourblind to greens,
so it could all be lawn out there, who knows?
Come on! Wake up.
It smells cold out there.
We can play and have fun.
I'll get my lead from downstairs.
Actually that's tough, it hangs on the hook.
Hey dad, wake up, get my lead
Please don't make me beg
I mean plead.
Dad! Mum! That's it, a leg.
I'll grab it and pull
If that doesn't work, I'll try the head.
Finally. We have movement.
He gets up, steps on squeaky ball.
I put that there.
He looks down on me-
he's tall.
I'm less tall.
I always look up to him.
It gives me a bad neck some days.
Dad showers while I pace the floor.
He marks his territory in the bathroom
so I just pace a little more.
I can wait
The snow won't run away.
It usually lasts weeks or more
in dog years anyway.
I scratch my collar
argh-this is a good one.
You can't beat a good scratch-
followed by a long run.
DAD! Come on!
That's it, he's ready
Coat on, we're out the door.
It IS snow! Not lawn.
Wicked.
It melts on my nose
and tickles my toes.
And there's snowmen to pee on all day.
So we head to the park
where I hear other dogs bark
sounds of joy and happiness and play.
Happy chat of chasing things, leaping snow and ice covered fur.
Except for the terrier from number 4
who whines of some inhumane procedure-
That the vet has in store
for him next week.
Poor kid.
Friday, 17 December 2010
I don't joke all of the time.
Sometimes not everything is a joke to me. Humour helps me get through an awful lot, but sometimes, just sometimes I allow myself to write about things that are hurting me. I'm not talking about a poem about a dodgy curry either.
I always feel like I sound so pretentious when I write about something serious. Most poems that I write are little snapshots of how I was feeling at the time, so it's interesting for me (if not you) to go back and re-read some of them. To see what my mood was like. I'm of course not including poems about squirrels with GPS tracking systems.
Talk to me.
Tell me that you're fine
that your days aren't long and painful.
Tell me that your regretful ways are gone
and sadness is not your only visitor.
Tell me how you're happy
to not have me around.
Tell me that you're proud of me
but make me believe it just this once.
Tell me you'll protect me
And not fill my life with fear.
Tell me you're not scared
of all the things you've done.
Tell me how you loved her
and we'll forget all of her pain.
Tell me that you're sorry
and I'll tell you how you're forgiven.
Tell me you'd like to see me
to take away all that I have seen.
Tell me that you're ready
to say goodbye to all you knew.
Tell me that you love me
And I'll lie back to you.
I wrote this at the height of my dad's illness. I was angry and believed nothing from anybody. He would call me every day, from about 3:00am onwards and just bombard me with how he loved me, was proud of me, and how I never let him down. He would call dozens of time each night/morning. After each call, he would forget about what had been said, and call me back and the whole thing would repeat. I managed to cope for a few months, but eventually it started to wear me down and I began to cope less and less. Many times I slammed the phone down. Ignored it. Yelled at him. Screamed at him. Nothing, nothing seemed to reach him. I would lose my temper with him, hang up, and then within a minute he'd call back as if nothing had happened and we'd start all over again. There is a black ink stain on the wall where I threw a Sharpie in temper (it was the closest and lightest thing to hand). It got to the point where it felt like I was dying with him. I couldn't go and visit him. I was terrified of how I would react if he behaved the same way in person. I didn't want to hurt him. But I did that in the end anyway by not visiting him.
He died while I was in Canada. I found out a month after he'd died. My sister phoned me and told me. Victim support had informed her. I was the last to know. My other sister's family had even pretended to be acting on my behalf and found out everything they could from the nursing home. The manager had to actually apologize for giving out the details to someone other than me. I had no energy left to care. But it was just a typical move from my family. My family are awful. Each and every one of them. I know that some people include me in that company as well. My dad's sister certainly does. She is.....was in charge of his care. She didn't bother to tell me that he'd died. Dad had already been cremated and scattered by the time I'd found out. He had always wanted to be buried. So I couldn't even grant him that wish. I wish I could have been stronger for him.
Both my parents had some form of dementia towards the end. Mum's was thankfully short lived because of the cancer, but it was still a nightmare. For a long time afterwards, I struggled with the fact that I didn't really know when my mum, the person that was truly my mum, had died. It felt like she'd slipped away and I hadn't even noticed. Like she'd died without me realising. And all that was left was a warped version of her. A warped version that had to be fed and cleaned. Mum never got abusive, which I am so thankful for. Dad's was different and really put me through a lot. And that was just through the power of the telephone.
What really upsets me is I was so proud of how he was dealing with it. The last time we met, we hugged, and we both said how much we loved one another. And I meant it. He said that he wanted it to end this way. That we would remember each other this way. We were in the park in Leamington. I asked him if there was anything he wanted to know about mum's death (he wasn't around for when that happened, but not through his choice), he said no, he didn't ever seem to want to know, so I didn't force any details on him. I was the one that told him she was sick. I had to tell him the news that she wouldn't get better. And I was the one that told him when she'd died. I never thought I'd have to do something like that. I didn't feel grown-up enough.
We hugged and he told me to take care of myself. He was always a big man, one that I was barely able to get my arms around. Now he was skin and bones and he felt so fragile. I was scared to hurt him, but I thought that if I hugged him hard enough, long enough, and really meant it, then I would always remember it. He then said that this is how he wanted it and said goodbye.
He was living in a place about a mile from the park. I followed him all the way back there without him seeing me. Every slow and painful step. It took forever, but I needed to know he was ok. His last sight of me was in the park. Mine was of him walking back to a dirty hostel, dragging his walking stick behind him. The walking stick that he had worn down by dragging it down the same road over and over again. It was worn at an angle. I never saw him use it. But he always dragged it behind him.
Three days later, he called me from his new "home". The nursing home. And I guess that was when both our nightmares began. It was like our "deal" about how it was supposed to end had been forgotten. I don't blame him. But you know what? If I had been him (or my mum), I couldn't put my children through that.
Two different illnesses killed my parents. But I lost them a long time before they died. Sometimes it's easy to get the lines blurred, but I really loved the good parts of my dad. Hated the bad parts. And despised the illness that he had, for what it made him, and for what it made me.
I always feel like I sound so pretentious when I write about something serious. Most poems that I write are little snapshots of how I was feeling at the time, so it's interesting for me (if not you) to go back and re-read some of them. To see what my mood was like. I'm of course not including poems about squirrels with GPS tracking systems.
Talk to me.
Tell me that you're fine
that your days aren't long and painful.
Tell me that your regretful ways are gone
and sadness is not your only visitor.
Tell me how you're happy
to not have me around.
Tell me that you're proud of me
but make me believe it just this once.
Tell me you'll protect me
And not fill my life with fear.
Tell me you're not scared
of all the things you've done.
Tell me how you loved her
and we'll forget all of her pain.
Tell me that you're sorry
and I'll tell you how you're forgiven.
Tell me you'd like to see me
to take away all that I have seen.
Tell me that you're ready
to say goodbye to all you knew.
Tell me that you love me
And I'll lie back to you.
I wrote this at the height of my dad's illness. I was angry and believed nothing from anybody. He would call me every day, from about 3:00am onwards and just bombard me with how he loved me, was proud of me, and how I never let him down. He would call dozens of time each night/morning. After each call, he would forget about what had been said, and call me back and the whole thing would repeat. I managed to cope for a few months, but eventually it started to wear me down and I began to cope less and less. Many times I slammed the phone down. Ignored it. Yelled at him. Screamed at him. Nothing, nothing seemed to reach him. I would lose my temper with him, hang up, and then within a minute he'd call back as if nothing had happened and we'd start all over again. There is a black ink stain on the wall where I threw a Sharpie in temper (it was the closest and lightest thing to hand). It got to the point where it felt like I was dying with him. I couldn't go and visit him. I was terrified of how I would react if he behaved the same way in person. I didn't want to hurt him. But I did that in the end anyway by not visiting him.
He died while I was in Canada. I found out a month after he'd died. My sister phoned me and told me. Victim support had informed her. I was the last to know. My other sister's family had even pretended to be acting on my behalf and found out everything they could from the nursing home. The manager had to actually apologize for giving out the details to someone other than me. I had no energy left to care. But it was just a typical move from my family. My family are awful. Each and every one of them. I know that some people include me in that company as well. My dad's sister certainly does. She is.....was in charge of his care. She didn't bother to tell me that he'd died. Dad had already been cremated and scattered by the time I'd found out. He had always wanted to be buried. So I couldn't even grant him that wish. I wish I could have been stronger for him.
Both my parents had some form of dementia towards the end. Mum's was thankfully short lived because of the cancer, but it was still a nightmare. For a long time afterwards, I struggled with the fact that I didn't really know when my mum, the person that was truly my mum, had died. It felt like she'd slipped away and I hadn't even noticed. Like she'd died without me realising. And all that was left was a warped version of her. A warped version that had to be fed and cleaned. Mum never got abusive, which I am so thankful for. Dad's was different and really put me through a lot. And that was just through the power of the telephone.
What really upsets me is I was so proud of how he was dealing with it. The last time we met, we hugged, and we both said how much we loved one another. And I meant it. He said that he wanted it to end this way. That we would remember each other this way. We were in the park in Leamington. I asked him if there was anything he wanted to know about mum's death (he wasn't around for when that happened, but not through his choice), he said no, he didn't ever seem to want to know, so I didn't force any details on him. I was the one that told him she was sick. I had to tell him the news that she wouldn't get better. And I was the one that told him when she'd died. I never thought I'd have to do something like that. I didn't feel grown-up enough.
We hugged and he told me to take care of myself. He was always a big man, one that I was barely able to get my arms around. Now he was skin and bones and he felt so fragile. I was scared to hurt him, but I thought that if I hugged him hard enough, long enough, and really meant it, then I would always remember it. He then said that this is how he wanted it and said goodbye.
He was living in a place about a mile from the park. I followed him all the way back there without him seeing me. Every slow and painful step. It took forever, but I needed to know he was ok. His last sight of me was in the park. Mine was of him walking back to a dirty hostel, dragging his walking stick behind him. The walking stick that he had worn down by dragging it down the same road over and over again. It was worn at an angle. I never saw him use it. But he always dragged it behind him.
Three days later, he called me from his new "home". The nursing home. And I guess that was when both our nightmares began. It was like our "deal" about how it was supposed to end had been forgotten. I don't blame him. But you know what? If I had been him (or my mum), I couldn't put my children through that.
Two different illnesses killed my parents. But I lost them a long time before they died. Sometimes it's easy to get the lines blurred, but I really loved the good parts of my dad. Hated the bad parts. And despised the illness that he had, for what it made him, and for what it made me.
c-c-c-c-changes...
Not big changes. But I've decided to cut down on the number of life-sucking social network thingies that I have spread myself over.
16th Dec 2010
With a title like that, this sounds more like a diary than a blog. I just couldn't muster up a title. Sue me.
I visited my nan yesterday. Turns out that is was her birthday. The clues were there when I walked in. Dozens of birthday cards that weren't there the day before, and balloons with "90" on them.
Who knew that they even made balloons with "90" on them? I had to look closely to make sure somebody hadn't just added a "0" to more ordinary "9" balloons.
By the time you reach 90 years of age everything is dangerous to you, including balloons. They are a trip hazzard for a start. They "drift". One impact from a balloon could break a 90-year old's hip. They create static electricity. One spark from a balloon and my nan's polyester cardigan could go up in flames. Still, it won't be my fault if anything happens to her and that's the most important thing.
Oh, and with how racist old people can be, I'm surprised she allowed different colour balloons in the house.
Anyway, after skillfully avoiding the last 89 of her birthdays, I felt that a card might be expected of me. Not by my nan, you understand. Nan is happy to have nothing, and tells me this every year. But the family frowns upon you if you don't follow protocol when it comes to these things. I tend to get frowned upon more than most, so I thought the card would help.
Fortunately I had a friend whose birthday had fallen upon the same spawning day as my nan, so I had popped into Poundland earlier to buy her a card (no expense spared), and who knew that you could pick up FOUR almost decent cards for a pound?
Wicked! As they say.
So, I had 3 spare cards. So, I had nan's birthday covered. So.........into the bathroom with a pen.
I managed to get it written within two flushes.
Handed her the card and she said "Thank you" and placed it on the mantlepiece. Didn't even open it. Can you feel the love?
She then spent the next half an hour telling me that she didn't want a fuss.
Nan: "I told them not to bring it up. Don't mention it! But they had to go and put it on facebook"
Me: *my really high voice "You know about facebook!?"
Nan: "They're taking me out for a meal on Saturday. Thirty of the family. I've told them I don't want a cake. And I especially don't want everyone singing happy birthday. It's embarrassing!"
Me: "Well yes. And there's copyright issues."
Nan: "I've told them! If they sing happy birthday to me, the next time it's their birthday, I will stand on the table top and SCREEEEEEAM and SCREAM! See how they like it."
That is one family dinner that I would love to see.
Oh, and I wasn't invited to nan's birthday dinner. Can you feel the love?
I visited my nan yesterday. Turns out that is was her birthday. The clues were there when I walked in. Dozens of birthday cards that weren't there the day before, and balloons with "90" on them.
Who knew that they even made balloons with "90" on them? I had to look closely to make sure somebody hadn't just added a "0" to more ordinary "9" balloons.
By the time you reach 90 years of age everything is dangerous to you, including balloons. They are a trip hazzard for a start. They "drift". One impact from a balloon could break a 90-year old's hip. They create static electricity. One spark from a balloon and my nan's polyester cardigan could go up in flames. Still, it won't be my fault if anything happens to her and that's the most important thing.
Oh, and with how racist old people can be, I'm surprised she allowed different colour balloons in the house.
Anyway, after skillfully avoiding the last 89 of her birthdays, I felt that a card might be expected of me. Not by my nan, you understand. Nan is happy to have nothing, and tells me this every year. But the family frowns upon you if you don't follow protocol when it comes to these things. I tend to get frowned upon more than most, so I thought the card would help.
Fortunately I had a friend whose birthday had fallen upon the same spawning day as my nan, so I had popped into Poundland earlier to buy her a card (no expense spared), and who knew that you could pick up FOUR almost decent cards for a pound?
Wicked! As they say.
So, I had 3 spare cards. So, I had nan's birthday covered. So.........into the bathroom with a pen.
I managed to get it written within two flushes.
Handed her the card and she said "Thank you" and placed it on the mantlepiece. Didn't even open it. Can you feel the love?
She then spent the next half an hour telling me that she didn't want a fuss.
Nan: "I told them not to bring it up. Don't mention it! But they had to go and put it on facebook"
Me: *my really high voice "You know about facebook!?"
Nan: "They're taking me out for a meal on Saturday. Thirty of the family. I've told them I don't want a cake. And I especially don't want everyone singing happy birthday. It's embarrassing!"
Me: "Well yes. And there's copyright issues."
Nan: "I've told them! If they sing happy birthday to me, the next time it's their birthday, I will stand on the table top and SCREEEEEEAM and SCREAM! See how they like it."
That is one family dinner that I would love to see.
Oh, and I wasn't invited to nan's birthday dinner. Can you feel the love?
Thursday, 16 December 2010
Everyone has the flu and I rewrote a song from Grease once.
I got chills,
they're multiplyin'.
And I'm losin' bowel control.
'cause the virus
is multiplyin',
it's terrifyin'!
You better throw up,
'cause you need a pan,
and the nearest one's the loo.
You better throw up;
you better understand
shortly after there'll be poo.
Oh dear god, please don't tell me poo!
I'm gonna throw up!
(You better run, hon), o, o, oo, honey.
I'm gonna throw up!
(Then you'd better run, hon), o, o, oo, honey.
I'm gonna throw up!
(Then why won't you run, hon?), o, o, ooooo.
I'm on my knees.
Oh, yes indeed.
If you're filled
with infection
and you're starting to sway,
I hope the wind's not in my direction.
Keep away.
I better throw up,
'cause you need a man.
I need a man
who can keep himself alive.
I better throw up
get my bowels to move.
Oh, they will move!
In that my faith is justified.
Are you sure?
Yes, I'm sure down deep inside.
I'm gonna throw up!
(Then why won't you run, hon?), o, o, oo, honey.
I'm gonna throw up!
(Then stop singin' and run, hon), o, o, oo, honey.
I'm gonna throw up!
(I'm not lisnin' anymore, hon), o, o, oo.
I'm on my knees.
Oh, help me please!
Repeat chorus 2x
and call me in the morning.
they're multiplyin'.
And I'm losin' bowel control.
'cause the virus
is multiplyin',
it's terrifyin'!
You better throw up,
'cause you need a pan,
and the nearest one's the loo.
You better throw up;
you better understand
shortly after there'll be poo.
Oh dear god, please don't tell me poo!
I'm gonna throw up!
(You better run, hon), o, o, oo, honey.
I'm gonna throw up!
(Then you'd better run, hon), o, o, oo, honey.
I'm gonna throw up!
(Then why won't you run, hon?), o, o, ooooo.
I'm on my knees.
Oh, yes indeed.
If you're filled
with infection
and you're starting to sway,
I hope the wind's not in my direction.
Keep away.
I better throw up,
'cause you need a man.
I need a man
who can keep himself alive.
I better throw up
get my bowels to move.
Oh, they will move!
In that my faith is justified.
Are you sure?
Yes, I'm sure down deep inside.
I'm gonna throw up!
(Then why won't you run, hon?), o, o, oo, honey.
I'm gonna throw up!
(Then stop singin' and run, hon), o, o, oo, honey.
I'm gonna throw up!
(I'm not lisnin' anymore, hon), o, o, oo.
I'm on my knees.
Oh, help me please!
Repeat chorus 2x
and call me in the morning.
I have been reminded that this blog exists.
No, it hasn't sent me a Christmas card (not yet, anyway), but every so often, I get reminded to visit my Blog, Twitter, Tumblr, YT channels (even the long forgotten ones), and spend some time with them.
I still don't know what I want from a blog. Typing takes much more time than just making a video or tweeting something. But I'd like to keep this thing going. Maybe I'll appreciate it more in a few years than I will 3000 tweets about "Lost a sock" and so forth.
So I will be attempting to keep scribbling in this thing. I think only 2 people check it anyway, but it's interesting to look back on and I very rarely remember what I've written, so it can be a fun surprise.
I just wish I had interesting things to talk about.
No, it hasn't sent me a Christmas card (not yet, anyway), but every so often, I get reminded to visit my Blog, Twitter, Tumblr, YT channels (even the long forgotten ones), and spend some time with them.
I still don't know what I want from a blog. Typing takes much more time than just making a video or tweeting something. But I'd like to keep this thing going. Maybe I'll appreciate it more in a few years than I will 3000 tweets about "Lost a sock" and so forth.
So I will be attempting to keep scribbling in this thing. I think only 2 people check it anyway, but it's interesting to look back on and I very rarely remember what I've written, so it can be a fun surprise.
I just wish I had interesting things to talk about.
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