Tag Archives: family

Death rattle

* This a poem that I wrote whilst waiting and comforting my mom and my gran before she passed over in March 2018, from vascular Dementia and Alzheimers. I wrote it while waiting for her to let go of Life. It’s a Morbid (and possibly strange) thing to do when someone you love is dying in front of you. This was one way of expressing my powerlessness, over a period 3 days watching someone cling on to this Life).*

Death rattle

Reminiscent of an uprising of crickets ready to battle.
Stare at a puffed updiamond heart
Drumming inside an empty cage.
Birds ripped apart.
Gargoyle stares ignored.
Folk bumble about unaware of what’s in store for us all,
eventually.
The breathe of Hades lingers
then makes a dash for scant flesh and bones.
Meat is not this gods instrument
Lust causes the call for more drones.
Sponge, moisten parched parted lips
Raven signals the ire of its whips.
The ones who don’t loose it in bedlam excite
Death,
Invites all loved ones to rally around
Stands by door.
Stands back a while
Admires its own power.
A moment to savour
Every door closed,
Each breath cloys,
Begs for enough fare to cross the distance to embrace Elysium air.
Today everyone shall know how close we are to parting from brown soil.
Lambs,
Hatched chickens,
Babies born in Cumbersome air.
The cycle must complete before we can emerge reborn.
Death is inevitable as necessary as life is to the Cumbaya of springs first show of petal.
When you look at the beginning of this new dawn,
Know that when you stand back in awe
Its because you have felt the chill of winters soul depart.
Shed a tear for the snowman who brought our youth so much joy.
Appreciate death.
Stare it in the face.
The sun chants
counting his rosary beads.
Tomorrow never dies.
Trying to type something while listening and watching my grandmother dying.
Rasp
Gasp
I support the assisted dying law.
This is inhumane!
A selfish farce.
Happy mothers day,
Wherever you go
Wherever you roam
I hope that it is a place as magnificent as earths revellers make it out to be.

Ma petit fripon. Je t’aims toujours

 

Grateful Milky chancer

(2 months ago and scroll down  to the bottom for today’s inspirational  track & lyrics – I’m so grateful)

 

We all say we want to disappear

By God, I truly want to conjure it and truly never come back from this planet.

I’ve tried so many times

And this might sound like Self -pity ( perhaps it is).

But I’m not here to get into it.

These are about my feelings.

I’m not a poet. I am just a person who has feelings & thoughts,

I’m not trying to hurt anybody.

I’m trying to live the best way I can,

I’ve tried to take my life many times (and) yet, here I am.

I do the best I can.

Deep pan Pizza, Fried chicken,Sushi, Proscecco.

Get my fringe trimmed,

My daughter, a mermaid’s tail.

My husband. Yes, I have sinned!

But I’m still here.

And all I want to do is disappear because I know that,

Eventually-

Everyone I love,

Everyone I know is going to be gone.

And I wouldn’t have made the bonds with the people who I brought into this Life

And the people who I’ve… met or come across.

I wouldn’t have secured any bonds.

I am lost

I am always forlorn.

Flawed, I wear my heart on my sleeve and

I cry. I pace this kitchen over & over

And no I don’t have an excuse for relapsing

And I don’t have an excuse for what I have done.

I just know that my heart was invested in it all and I’m trying to do the best I can!

I wish I wasn’t here. I have plans- is this a death threat?

I don’t know.

All I know is there is pizza cooking, and I’m on my last tether

Overdoses don’t do it.

Maybe hang myself?

I’m (just) so far gone. This is not even a poem.

 

 

(Today)

Where to find lightbulb answers for lightbulb questions?

How can we help you? You are loved.

My husband

I’m going to the source of my labelled diagnoses to find a way to answer this question.

Not to look for a reason to blame why I am like  I am, but so I can ask the right questions to help myself get better.

How can we help you?

Okay. The brain goes dead. How I help myself?

Set small goals for the bigger goals  I want to achieve?

What do I want to achieve?

  • A new carpet.

  • I want to clean the blinds,

  • I want to go through my drawers and  Bee’s drawers to organise our space better.

  • We need a new cupboard.

  • I want to get in the festive spirit.

  • Bring the big T.V.  downstairs.

  • I’m worried about Tatiana’s  ( my cat’s) cough.

  • I don’t want to be a FUCK UP!
  • I need to connect more with my mom and family.

 

All achievable unless its a “bad” day.

Write a list to Santa?  ( my inner Santa)

Being self-destructive is tough (sarcasm & truth).

Not as tough as being an 8-year-old child who doesn’t understand why her mother pushes her away. She is also scared to make her cry or hurt my feelings.

 Not as tough as having an endoscopy and no sedation. Having people talk about going for a pint after work while they look at your bowel.

Not as tough as being alone, having a panic attack & waking up in a hospital alone at 87.

I’m so quick to forget about the mermaids tail & a dog that can do anything ticking off Santa’s Christmas list.

I’m so quick to dismiss time.

Or is that just me looking up my own anus again?

Fluent in assholism

.

How can I save my relationships before its too late?

Am I going through the motions as my husband asked?

A firm NO  takes up all the room in my cognitive region.

Before I answer I think again about if I’m just going through the motions…

Today I am going to look up the definition of  ‘going through the motions

PHRASE

If you say that someone is going through the motions, you think they are only saying or doing something because it is expected of them without being interested, enthusiastic, or sympathetic.

Well, of course, I am going through the motions. That is part of the problem.

Get up, eat, clean, sleep, fill my day.

It’s not because I don’t care. I don’t think about the consequences or I forget the pain associated with the consequences.  Or I think about how to get away from feeling a failure in the now.

Note to self: Don’t do things that will make you feel shit about yourself

It’s not that hard to do, Is it?

Maybe I hesitated before answering my husband because I asked myself if the way I am and response makes me a narcissist.

Well, of course, I am. I have spent many years trying to look good, be the thinnest, the most pretty the cleverest etc…

I know I am not & will never be all the above-mentioned thoughts.

What did that mean for me as an adult with Chronic Anorexia?

I don’t take millions of pictures of myself and think I’m better than other people. When I have judged others I try to look at the shitty things I have done or said in my life to humble myself… I am demanding. I can be selfish. I don’t think I am the best. I want to be the best I can be.

Do I live in a fantasy world?

I have done. I do live in a world where I am the object of desire/ importance to get away from who I see in the mirror, who I feel I have become measured by what I have achieved psychically/emotionally/materially. I use sleep as a defence mechanism to not have to deal with the person I am today. My perception of me.

I know what is real and isn’t unless my thoughts about weight and shame invade my inner world.

I have to wake up from my slumber eventually.  Then I convince myself that the only thing that will make me good & empowered is by proving to people I have the money to buy shit that isn’t worth it.

I put a value on what I pay for & how I want it to be packaged.

I don’t feel I need constant praise from others to keep my ego in check. I do feel I need to give myself praise and try & love myself so that I can come across as a person with feelings, warmth & love.

I do struggle to show my emotions. Perhaps its the way my face moves, or because I don’t lie about how I feel or because I’m shit at pretending to be over the moon about something when I am feeling anything but amazing.

When I’m in a toxic phase I guess I do feel that the world should stop for me. It’s unrealistic to think that the world does. I have to check myself. I need to live more outside of my head than in it.

 

I don’t try to exploit people maliciously for my own gain without feeling shame nor the ability to empathise.  I know how manipulative I can be & I have to check myself a lot to try & not be too manipulative. I do sometimes forget how it must feel like to another person to be taken advantage of.

I don’t think I am a person who enjoys belittling others to prop up my own ego. I hate gossip, I can use patronising language & behaviour if I feel threatened. I don’t enjoy making others feel less than I feel.

I want people to be happy & I want people to know that I can be a source of happiness too.

Maybe I am going through the motions but we all do!

If I said: yes, I’m going through the motions

then that would mean that I am a narcissist!

And according to Google: Narcissists can’t love their own children!

What?

I already feel I lack traits that a normal mother gives her child.

Or because of my eating disorder, I have traits of a “vulnerable” narcissist.

If I look indifferent I am also afraid of being abandoned so I try to prepare myself for that moment.

Most of my relationships are unstable -with my mom. daughter partners etc… I can go from having a high opinion of myself to having zero worth in myself in a matter of hours.

I do need to work on my self-image & habits to self-harm.

I have many diagnoses -I need to use what I know about myself to make a positive change.

I want my daughter to love me in 20 years time.

I’m not a child any longer. I want to be better than I am now.

 

Mrs Thought bubble

This is a surreal piece  I wrote during a surreal time.

It’s about the cruelty of life and how the elderly are treated in Britain. It was inspired by the time I spent with my grandmother in her care home when she had Dementia and Alzheimers.

It’s a stream of consciousness  Short Borderline script.

 

 MRS BRUISED:  “I’m tired”

                                 “I’m tired”

 CARD SHUFFLER: (throws his voice from a table on the left)

                                      “I’m tired too.”

MRS BRUISED:          (sits upright)

                                         “I’m tired”

CARD SHUFFLER:     “Aye? Go to sleep then.”

 (The room fans out into a full house of insidious laughter)

MISS CARDIGAN:   excuse me, Dear, can you tell me where the toilets  

                                    I’ve only just  popped by/

THE WEED: ( Looks around for a sign indicating the Mangers office)

                                         Of course, just follow me.

(THE WEED walks back from the toilets  and goes to crouch down to hold MRS THOUGHT BUBBLES  hand).

THE WEED:             She’s pissed herself. Can someone change her?

THE ROSE:             No, she hasn’t.

GINGER:                (enters) Here you go. Open your mouth?

(GINGER shovels a hefty spoonful of what looks like boiled bagged food) 

THE WEED: (aside) Lost in thought……The smell of piss can’t be worse than death’s kiss…

GINGER:               Here- wah-la!  open your mouth.

  Mrs Thought Bubble’s inner thoughts

 

THE WEED:           Tu es Pleine?

(aside)                 Like an old coffin opening for the first time in a          century;

 MRS THOUGHT BUBBLE:   Pleine.

THE ROSE:               You   are thirsty today.

( Comes back from the kitchen with another full beaker of  red diluted kids juice)

                                     So so thirsty.

THE WEED: (aside) Three empty beakers all lined up in a row – My eyes rest and are ready to aim – trigger happy and ready to blow.

 

                               She has pissed herself, look!

THE ROSE:          Oh you have made a pee-pee Mamie- a pee-pee!

 REGRESSION SOUNDS

 

(chorus) A Nod. A skeleton- face grins

Bright light beams from  Mrs Thought Bubbles eyes.

An Image.

A carved pumpkin with a toothy grin.

Burning away in a dark room within.

More strained laughter churns out lactic acid.

MRS BRUISED : (on a loop)

                              Oh, I am tired. 

BRUNETTE:      Fiddler!  Stop putting your hands down your pants.

THE WEED:     Maybe that is the only way she gets to feel something.

(Legs splayed-  FIDDLER’S fingers explores her vagina hungrily)

MRS BRUISED:       I’m tired.

CARD SHUFFLER:  Yeah me too! Shut up.

(Eyes veer to the table on the left).

 

THE WEED:  Dying flowers  in a glass vase.

                   If I had to throw it would reality become what I once knew it to be?

Jeer me on why don’t you? 

Throw the fucking vase.

Throw it!

How long have those silver wrapped chocolates been  stood there. This is not some fancy New York hotel. 

If they are going to start leaving chocolates make sure you get Hershey’s kisses.

Brown as the shit under neath Mrs Thought bubble’s  nails.

 

THE WEED:  She has pissed herself!

GINGER:      I will go get dessert.

THE WEED: (aside) Does it come in different sex positions? 

                                     Sweet Silence.

                                  One of the toughest spells to break.

                                  No one dares look at the other.

                                Carers go  a drift.

                                Congregate to conflate into  gossip office politics.

THE ROSE:            Go and tell them to change her.

(THE WEED creeps along the  floor until it has found the right door).

THE WEED:               Can someone change Mrs Thought bubble!  She is in her own piss.

MRS HEGEMONY:  Wheres nondescript and the other one too?

Great big sighs. A room full of eyes wondering if the pay they get is worth the time.

The time finally has a stroke and then another and another.

The hoist in all its bluesy hues comes for Mrs Thought-bubble.

 

GINGER:               I’m sorry I got called into the office.

THE WEED:       Look it’s not you. Its just… I am sitting watching Mrs                                           Thought bubble over here, shout out….  and                                                            “she is wading in her own  piss!

THE ROSE:           Let’s go outside

THE ROSE: ( turns to BRUNETTE)

                             Can we take her outside?

BRUNETTE: ( a voice rolls out  like a plush  red carpet)

                         Of course.

 ( BRUNETTE rolls out the wheelchair –)

CHORUS: She hasn’t been outside in over a year.

                    She shouts and protests.

                   Vintage sunglasses are placed on her  to  help process her eyes.

                  Flowers.Bees.Sunshine.Colours.

(More shouts and protests).

MAINTENANCE:  Do you want me to take a picture?

(THE WEED and THE ROSE in unison) Oh yes please.

(Chorus) CLICK !

                  CLICK!

                     Mature cheddar smiles captured against the vines.

THE WEED:  I love you Mrs Thought-bubble.

(Muffled sounds.)

                         I’ll settle for that as an good enough au revoir.

                         Four doors.

                          Four Windows.

                          Four wheels.

                         Taxi takes us very fucking far away from here, please.

THE WEED: (to THE ROSE)     Did you notice that nobody came to clean the chair?

THE ROSE:      Don’t tell me this.

                       Every night I cry myself to sleep 

                          If we move her again she will die.                           

                         Please let her die.

                           Why? 

                            Why?

                             It is beyond my understanding.

Petals start to turn inwards – it’s a crying shame to see rose a  start to wilt.

RED CAP:       There was a sticker attached saying ‘TO CLEAN’

THE WEED:    Oh.

                        I’m sorry.

                         I love you, Rose.

                         I can’t imagine what you are going through.

THE ROSE: (Wilts that tiny bit more)

                         She doesn’t even know who I am anymore.

THE WEED:   I know who you are.

                         You know who I  am.

THE WEED: (aside)

It doesn’t matter if the sun is shining- water will always ignore the air around it. If it wants to pour so it shall.

Tears pour.

Tears break.

 The weed reaches and creeps until it has a secure grip  around The Roses stem.

Hands entwined.

The Weed .

The Rose.

Both look out their own private window.

                            Bee would have loved to see that cow…..

THE ROSE:     ( watered and ready to pose)

                         So tomorrow is a busy day. We have to sort out the cake

THE WEED:   The cake?

THE ROSE:       …the wedding cake?   And We need to find Mr Thought bubble an outfit  for the wedding.

THE WEED:    Is she actually allowed to come?

THE ROSE:        Madam  Hegemony, says it is fine.

THE WEED:    (flat)Oh, Cool. I wonder did we tell the cake makers that we changed the theme from sunflowers to yellow roses?

THE ROSE:     Yes! We are just having yellow icing on normal    flowers..

 THE WEED:     Oh… like the colour on our invitations? 

(Stationary).

THE ROSE:      See you tomorrow.

THE WEED: Mint, Yes.. tomorrow… (as an after thought)

THE ROSE:   10:30, Don’t be late.  We are getting threaded first.

                        Have you got the Bee’s shoes?

THE WEED:  Yes Mam.

THE ROSE:    I swear if you had loads of money in this town you still                                           wouldn’t be able to spend it.

                        It’s all bullshit

(from) THE HORSES MOUTH:

                    And so the earth continues to travel around the sun.

                    The sun goes down.

                  The moon is full-faced and all fluttering eyelashes.

                  And  I still have a long face.

                 Nothing but everything changes.

Nay,

Neigh!

Horses don’t talk.

Neither do flowers

Horse manure.

Bullshit.

Jut another day in ‘I wonder what the fuck  next land?

Just an average day in an average Care home.

 

Image Francecsa Woodman 

 

 

Dead Dong Ringer

Time stands still

Waiting for my child

To pick her up from her school.

Locked out

I’m no fool

Schools not meant to be cool.

Just another institution

Similar to a prison.

My constitution was made to rebel

For a cause

Less

Waiting around on top.

Never thought I’d glimpse a shadow of my former self -over the hill.

Curse these minutes.

Frozen into a state of blissful ignorance.

Wrapped up into a stationary kit.

Sigh

Sudden bowel movements

I feel ill.

Bad humour lost to a desolate sky.

Simmer into another ghetto outfit

Sparse Sunshine shimmer flecks

Until my skin unravels into motion.

For this moment

I’m not a suicide kid

Instead, I’m knocked out

By a dead dong ringer

Them there eyes

Catch sight of her eyes.

How they glimmer!

* inspired by the school run & national poetry day  & Life

 I’m genuinely happy to be alive. Not because life is perfect today but because I’m happy, humble and honest.

  • Write to recover

  • Create to recover

  • Communicate to recover

  • Connect to recover

  • Collaborate to recover.

Such a sexy little number

Such a sexy little number

I cry looking for a matching lingerie set

in

case

I want to look great for the moment I hit Downunder.

 

Laugh at your tears

Say a Huge fuck you to your fears.

 

This is the week when bash didn’t do it for me

Sniff

Sniff

Banging

Pocket pat down

hear a  jingle

Family matters is more substantial for me.

 

Write to recover or die trying to live the life of another.

 Freedom will come from sucking the teet from how you was mothered.

 

Be real

authenticate

deliberate who you gonna get rid of

You know them Twockers,

those who instigate?

 

I dilly dally

Think

Cut through the same ally

Second thoughts

Nah, maybe… another time.

 

No masterpiece -is this stream of consciousness

Too oily for an academic poets diet

Borderline poetry on the rocks

Top of the evening to those who think creativity is a bit of alright.

 

.*Song choice is purely based on the dynamics of my relationship with my husband. We are chalk (I am ). and he is pure cheese. 😉

Filly, mare,stallion -acrostic

HORSES

My 7-year-old daughter’s version

H ow the horses smell like a barn

Our horses like to trot

Realise something, where a horse comes into your house

Sour horses get sick

Elephant came to talk to Mrs Horse

Sour horses run for water after drinking sour juice

 

My husband’s version

Heavy is the head that wears the mane

Over hedges, one did ride

Rivers & Meadows one did trot

Sugar cubes are such delight

Ever a field an old man strolled

Such is the life of a horse so old.

 

My version

Have you ever fled from a nightmare?

Or realised that your slumber is your living yoke?

Rode more knights than kings or Queens?

Evade the question. hoping to secure your pedigree

Signed off with a neighbours kiss.

Another heathen #w2recover

Write to recover is what I always say.

I’ve discovered,

Is  few of my words  leave me whirling with  – I’m proud to park,  pay and display.

Deals are made,

devils I summon.

People are abused,

Charity leaps to a new order of Coven.

I write this way, with careless affray

to not lose a sense that words are tangible,

if  I work my fingers to imprint my genetic copyright

Confirming my DNA.

 

Some might say,

I try too hard

To write for better days .

Left to my own devices. I would live in clouds wrapped up in  grey hues-

a cemetery for all the left over  fillings

Thrown away, because of corrosive mouth decay.

 

In yer face!

Borderline – on the rocks.

I write to prove I’m far removed from serving  more time, in a straight jacket in New  Jack City.

Gangsters running around with silver bullet signed glocks.

 

I’ve spent my better days basking in  previous glory .

Like butter it melts away the fear  of sleeping dormant .

One wrong box and I’d have been mistaken for a Tory.

Liberal with my words, eager to serve and love all my friends with creative pulses .

 

Tic tacs, I guzzle-colours textured in obscure.

I fight these escapism ,  inauthentic, paradise bomber  impulses;

To get high with — to lose track of time.

 

To think

I need a  potion of artificial wired, chemistry alternatives.

Usually these act as a placebo.

 

Serve to knock off my crown of  free willed determinism.

 

Courage lives in a mane,

a city  near Massachusetts

Puritans might discover I’m Freud in a ghostly slip.

 

I’ll be hung ,

Hands lie limp by my side.

Bled feathers  will tickle  the crowd-

Show I  bluffed my way into the inner circle of creatives who have a grasp of the

same

sane

 mundane

chain.

 

Heads up!

 

Forever chasing  the dragon of stream  of consciousness .

 

My thoughts fail me,

I’m beginning to think,

I’ve become presumptuous.

The kindness in others  words — to allay my anxieties,

Overwhelms me .

 

I tie my own tubes.

Disgraced.

I refuse to give birth to a dancer  with stubs for toes, phalanges pimped out to strike a  quivering echo-like ,   Margot  Fontaine pose.

 

Inner fear corroborate with the sinner without a legitimate C.V.

Write nonsense-

The Lakers swan to the crowd

I’m a nutter.

I’d   crack a prince just to see a picture  of  a colourful scene.

 

Abstract,

Mindful – in  the lines.

It’s not important.

Just a visual spray of shamanic chakras to impregnate the rainbow-I foresee.

Leprechaun leave my latin beats to breathe.

Mouth the words of soft brie , camembert and  wild boar.

Grant me a baguette —    riddle away, and I’ll gather my thoughts to satisfy thee.

 

Goddess Luna grants a cycle to merge with my  rites in fertility.

Thoughts exiled to Siberia-paid to be alone.

 

My government  saves me.

My soul

I will put down-

Though I know I won’t gamble it all away.

 

I win back my losses

Trust me, I know there is always another day.

Write, write , write.

Each word is a  middle finger at the writers academia  establishment .

 

I don’t want to be even  almost famous.

I don’t need a book with my name on it.

I blog merely to pour my inner most thoughts out — free up my world.

It’s about as poetic as I can get.

 

How about I insert the word fragrant?

I’m not academic.

My passion is not systemic .

 

Always in a position to sky dive.

Risks thought about

After I land in the hornets hive.

Stings heal .

 

It reminds me I feel.

 

I live by my words ‘cos I’m irksome and caustic within.

I was born walking into  webs of contradiction

and, now,

All I beg is for  is a hint  of credit

For expressing myself in this audacious fashion.

 

I’m not here to chat ’bout literary success.-

I’m already thinking about my post party dressed as myself-

the bodacious writer ,

Who is in fact a sycophantic heathen.

A classless post.

A classless post

Throwback Thursday

They didn’t get why a white girl with seemingly everything would wanted to live a ghetto life – have black boyfriends and live in squalor.

One thing having class did help me with is get me out of a lot of trouble

Before you say money doesn’t buy

Carry on reading..

in all honesty..

The classic Mrs Thought bubble

This is a surreal piece I wrote about the cruelty of life and how the elderly are treated in Britain. It was inspired by the time I spent with my grandmother in her care home when she had Dementia and Alzeihmers. It’s a stream of consciousness borderline script.

 MRS BRUISED :   “I’m tired”

                                 “I’m tired”

 CARD SHUFFLER: (throws his voice from a table on the left)

                                      “I’m tired too.”

MRS BRUISED: (Sitting upright like a majestic, beaten up old queen)

                                         “I’m tired”

CARD SHUFFLER:     “Aye? Go to sleep then”

 The room fans out into a full house of insidious laughter.

MISS CARDIGAN:   excuse me Dear, can you tell me where the toilets                             I’ve only just                                            popped by

THE WEED: ( Looks around for sign of a staffed house)

                                         Of course just follow me….

(The weed walks back from the toilets  and goes to crouch down to hold Mrs Thought Bubble’s hand).

THE WEED:             She has pissed herself. Can someone change her?

THE ROSE:             No- she hasn’t.

GINGER:                Here you go. Open your mouth?

(Shovels a hefty spoonful of what looks like boiled bagged food) 

Lost in thought……

(The smell  of piss  can’t be worse than death’s kiss…)

GINGER:               Here- wah la!  open your mouth.

Listen to thoughts of an animated  Mrs Thought Bubble.

 

THE WEED:           Tu es Pleine?

Like an old coffin opening for the first time in a century;

 MRS THOUGHT BUBBLE:  ( creeks out slowly)

                                   Pleine

THE ROSE: ( Comes back from the kitchen with another full beaker of  red diluted kids juice)

                                  You   are thirsty today.

                                 So so thirsty.

Three empty beakers all lined up in a row – My eyes rest and are ready to aim – trigger happy and ready to blow.

 

THE WEED:          She has pissed herself, look!

THE ROSE:          Oh you have made a pee pee Mamie- a pee pee!

BABIES ARE SO CUTE. LISTEN TO HOW REGRESSION SOUNDS

 

Nodding.

A skeleton- face grinning .

Bright light beams from  Mrs Thought Bubbles eyes.

An Image.

A carved pumpkin with a toothy grin.

Burning away in a dark room:  within.

More strained laughter churning out lactic acid.

MRS BRUISED : (on a loop)

                              Oh ,I am tired. 

BRUNETTE:      Fiddler!  Stop putting your hands down your pants.

Maybe that is the only way she gets to feel something.

Legs splayed-  FIDDLER’S fingers exploring her vagina hungrily.

MRS BRUISED:       I’m tired

CARD SHUFFLER: Yeah me too! Shut up.

Eyes veer to the table on the left.

 

Dying flowers  in a glass vase.

If I had to throw it would reality become what I once knew it to be?

Jeer me on why don’t you? 

Throw the fucking vase.

Throw it!

How long have those silver wrapped chocolates been  stood there. This is not some fancy New York hotel. 

If they are going to start leaving chocolates make sure you get Hershey’s kisses.

Brown as the shit under neath Mrs Thought bubble’s  nails.

THE WEED:  She has pissed herself!

GINGER:      I will go get dessert.

Does it come in different sex positions? 

Sweet Silence.

One of the toughest spells to break.

No one dares look at the other.

Carers go  a drift.

Congregate to conflate into  gossip office politics.

THE ROSE:            Go and tell them to change her.

The weed creeps along the  floor until it has found the right door.

THE WEED:               Can some one change Mrs Thought bubble!  She is                                       in her own piss.”

MRS HEGEMONY:  Wheres nondescript and the other one too?

Great big sighs. A room full of eyes wondering if the pay they get is worth the time.

Time finally has a stroke and then another and another.

The hoist in all it’s bluesy hues comes for Mrs Thought-bubble .

 

GINGER:               I’m sorry I got called into the office.

THE WEED:       Look it’s not you. Its just.. I am sitting watching Mrs                                           Thought bubble  over  here, shout out….  and                                                            “she is wading in her own  piss!

THE ROSE:           Let’s go outside

THE ROSE: ( turns to BRUNETTE)

                             Can we take her outside?

BRUNETTE: ( a voice rolls out  like a plush  red carpet)

                         Of course.

 ( BRUNETTE rolls out the wheelchair – )

She hasn’t been outside in over a year.

She shouts and protests.

Vintage sunglasses are placed on her  to  help process her eyes.

Flowers.

Bees.

Sunshine.

Colours.

More shouts and protests.

MAINTENANCE:  Do you want me to take a picture?

(THE WEED and THE ROSE in unison) Oh yes please.

CLICK !

CLICK!

Mature cheddar smiles captured against the vines.

THE WEED:  I love you Mrs Thought-bubble.

Muffled sounds.

Feral.

 

I’ll settle for that as an good enough au revoir.

Four doors.

Four Windows.

Four wheels.

Taxi take us very fucking far away from here ,please.

THE WEED:     Did you notice that nobody came to clean the chair?

THE ROSE:      DON’T TELL ME THAT?

                           EVERY NIGHT I CRY MYSELF TO SLEEP!

                           IF WE MOVE HER AGAIN(pause) SHE WILL DIE.

                            PLEASE LET HER DIE

                            WHY?

                            WHY?

                            IT IS BEYOND MY UNDERSTANDING.

Petals start to turn inwards – it’s a crying shame to see a rose start to wilt.

RED CAP:       There was a sticker attached saying ‘TO CLEAN’

THE WEED:    Oh.

                        I’m sorry.

                         I love you , Rose.

                         I can’t imagine what you are going through.

THE ROSE: (Wilts that tiny bit more)

                         She doesn’t even know who I am anymore.

THE WEED:   I know who you are.

                         You know who I  am.

It doesn’t matter if the sun is shining- water will always ignore the air around it. If it wants to pour so it shall.

Tears pour.

Tears break.

 The weed reaches and creeps until it has a secure grip  around The Roses stem.

Hands entwined.

The Weed .

The Rose.

Both look out their own private window.

 Bee would have loved to see that cow…..

THE ROSE:     ( watered and ready to pose)

                         So tomorrow is a busy day. We have to sort out the cake

THE WEED:   The cake?

THE ROSE:       Daisy, the wedding cake?   And We need to find Mr Thought bubble an outfit  for the wedding.

THE WEED:     (grapples for breath)

                            Is she actually allowed to come?

THE ROSE:        Madam  Hegemony, says it is fine.

THE WEED:    (flat)

                              Oh,Cool. I wonder did we tell the cake makers that we have                          changed    the theme from sun flowers to  yellow roses?

THE ROSE:       (exasperated)

                           YES! We are just having yellow icing on normal    flowers..

 THE WEED:     Oh… like the colour on our invitations? 

Stationary.

THE ROSE:      See you tomorrow.

THE WEED: (as an after thought)

                        Mint,yes, tomorrow.

THE ROSE:   10:30, Don’t be late.  We are getting threaded first.

                        Have you got The Bees shoes?

THE WEED:  Yes Mam.

THE ROSE:    I swear if you had loads of money in this town you still                                           wouldn’t be able to  spend it.

                        It’s all bullshit

From the horses mouth – let him narrate for this bit.

                     And so the the earth continues to travel around the sun.

                    The sun goes down.

                  The moon is full faced and all fluttering eyelashes.

                  And  I still have a long face.

                 Nothing but everything changes.

Nay,

Neigh!

Horses don’t talk.

Neither do flowers

Horse manure.

Bullshit.

Jut another day in ‘I wonder what the fuck  next land?

Just an average day in an average Care home.

 

Image Francecsa Woodman 

 

 

I’m going to make it

Sometimes I wish I hadn’t lived. That overdose was meant to kill me. I didn’t want to live and then I have moments when I look at my child and my Ma and cat and think -these are the people and moments to live for.

Life isn’t easy and no one ever said it is easy. I am lonely -I don’t mind being alone but loneliness is a particular kind of poison that will feed into all my securities -to the point I  will put up with anyone even if they treat me like shit.

I don’t need those kind of people in my life. I want my life back. I screwed up in so many ways. It doesn’t mean that my life and who I am and what I look like is not worthy of being happy and loving myself.

 

 

Surround yourself with people who make you feel good.

We have survived another day- I want to get back to living life.