Sod it

When one is ill they have to make the most of it. So inbetween the bouts of vomit I have re drafted my two univeristy poems.
I am also craving a cigarette, but need to buy tobacco, which means smoking out of mine and marks last six pounds this week for food and venturing into the rain.

Which I can not bring myself to do, so I suppose writing poetry can help with addicts restraint as well.

The first one is losely based around my mum. Who may not be a hypercondriac but certainly takes a lot of medicine. The second is losely based on Y Not festival that I went to in the summer. We didn't fall over in front of a group of people and get offered brandy (shame) but the rest happened.

Hypercondriac

Rifling mums bag for a rizla
I find layers of pill packets with
little bulges one side
tinfoil on the other.
Zirtek and Paracetamol
evening primrose for periods
diocalm for dodgy digestion
brendroflumethiazide
for blood pressure
and epilim for her epilepsy.
A small air tight container
with cod liver oil for fish frail bones
and vitiamin C for colds.
A tub of vaseline for worry lines
and a watch ticking away the minutes.

Festival

We sail past the security guard who looks like Elvis
hands paddle either side of an abandoned lilo
which we travel on through watery mud.
He stares while we wave wrist bands and
say goodbye.

Later on my welly boots once green now mud, trudge
through crowds of wet pissed people
drinking in the naked boys
who slip and slide on their beer bellies
through the ooze.
I am holding up a friend
who wants that man
with the leopard skin hands
to give her more speed.

We avoid more of the tents
guys ropes catch our feet
we plunge face first into the squelch.
The stages are empty of sound
only the shouts from alcohol remain
and the group circled under a marquee
tight with conversation
who laugh when we fall.
Instead of a hand they offer us brandy
It burns my throat
I finish the bottle.

I wake up
in a tent that's gone stale
like the hard crust of sick on my chin.
Sun's shining in, hot boxing the tent
zip won't work
rip it,
wellys on again.

Tight

My shoulders are so tight and stressed I'm in a lot of pain. Sitting in LJMU's library. There is some tart listening to the same shit fucking song very loudly on her skinny ipod.
I've plugged my ears into Mark's. Mr E is comforting me now with his words of charming wisdom.
My eyes are blurry because I'm so tired, my whole body aches because I climbed up two large hills to find magic mushrooms yesterday. Only a couple were found only to be squashed and unidentiable in our pockets.

I just saw giant land snails. I loved them. I wanted to stay with them forever. You know how old lonely women have cats. I'll have fucking giant snails. GIANT!

There is so much to do and I'm totally unable to think or try to do it. Instead I have taken the advice of my mother and written a blog.

I should be writing my short story, poems, preparing my poetry presentation and making and outline of what I want to do in my univeristy project...

Poetry Presentation: Me and Baynton (who I have just spent a glorious three days with in stunning Aberstwyth) are going to be cats having a conversation. It will require acting skills and be dark humoured.

Univeristy Project: Go into a local merseyside school. Run a writing/music workshop to do with bees dying out. Get them kids aware and let them express their creative minds. (Hopefully will bw mixed with pro active fun).
NEED TO: Get a certificate saying I'm not a peaodphile.

Poems: Work on my festival poem - less cliche.
Work on dirty poem - extend that metaphor.

Short Story: Type it up and finish the fucking thing. Send into workshopping for tuesday. (re draft and submit In The Red Short Story..)

I think that's it.

Keep a level head.

Ignore the pain...for now...until the first counselling session at three.

Sausage hand

I realise it has been an age.
I just read back the former poems I wrote and they are shit. Self indulgent, uninteresting badly structured shit.
To find no one had said anything I'm not suprised, but this isn't a feel sorry for myself message.

This is a new leaf.

Since my last post I have actually been going to univeristy and not moping around men. I got married and live with the emotional mess now. How ever many problems we share with each other we have good times and love each other as well.

I'm finding I'm more of a short story writer. I love them, the raw meat of writing. Yet I still love reading poetry (John Agard and Jackie Kay are particular loves right now) I don't feel so inspired to write poetry until I'm feeling depressed.

Short stories on the other hand I'm constantly working on a couple at a time. Found the wonder of Alice Monroe, been catching up on Chekhov and always enjoy a bit of Zadie Smith. Now in the process of reading Saki and Maugham <- is that how it's spelt? No idea.

Here is one of the pieces I have been working on. AND remember it is still a work in progress, there are bits that need tweeking.

SAUSAGE HAND

Three plump sausage were placed on the table where his fingers should be. Reaching for a pen he drew with the other five fingered hand nails at the top of them. All he needed now was a needle and thread. His mother's sewing box was next to him.
Doctors were baffled when he was born with only a thumb and little finger on his left hand. They jibed his mum with questions, had she smoked during the pregnancy, taken drugs, drunk? And she answered coldly, no.
Everyday someone looked at his hands with a wide eyed fascination or a sick curdle in their attempted smiles. Even Mr Walton next door who had know his all his life would grimace at his hand.
His year six SAT's where starting that day. His only hope was that the bullying would die down. He wanted good results and he couldn't do that crying in the toilet.
He didn't mind the pain as the needle went through the top of his knuckle. He'd get used to it. When he got home he could take them out.
His mum said he was perfect the way he was. She had never been disappointed or upset with him. She said he was brave baring other peoples problems.
He hoped she wouldn't see what he was doing. She'd be disappointed then.
He pushed the needle through the first sausage, its tight skin popped. The point went back through his knuckle. He pulled tight on the thread. Blood snaked down his arm.