Today I wee into a big bottle all day and all night. This process reminds me that I am a machine that needs fuel and expels exhaust. Not sure if that is earth shatteringly significant but it also reminds me of the artist who uses his own blood for his art (above) – frozen congealed blood. It is said that Nigella Lawson when married to Saatchi Allowed one to defrost in her fridge by mistake .
Unlike said artist, rather than capitalising on my meat-like humanness I am preoccupied with how to transport said waste inconspicuously. You don’t really want to walk along the street with a big bottle of wee as it is so easily mistaken for a well known brand of industrial drain cleaner (identical bottle, identical colour, provided you have not eaten beetroot) – to confuse the two while not disastrous would be counterproductive and somewhat ironic. (I know all this because I have perused the shelves for drain cleaner when we had our drain crisis last summer. “Look”, I said, “there is my wee in B&Q”. I don’t know if my readers remember said items, but at your grans you used to see toilet roll covers that were either poodles of pricesses – I am seriously tempted to put one of those on my Christmas list.
( is it just me or is there some sort of coincidental synergy between the two images in this blog post)
I am doing this as homework for my exam at the marvellous National Amyloidosis Centre tomorrow. I missed my last exam in the summer because I chose to hurl myself from the dizzy heights of a step stool – not even ladder really – just three steps. Since then my monthly numbers have been in a slow but steady decline toward ‘not good’ so I expect them to recommend more treatment before too long. As this is a certainty with my diseases I worry not a jot as there is absolutely nothing I can do to modify this trajectory.
I am back to churning out poems www.fleeting.eu:82/wordpress/ – the quality betrays how easy I find writing poems, they are nearly all unedited, I am too lazy to go back, but I should – no who cares! I enjoy it just as much as fiddling with the phone box and associate composing and programming. I cannot recommend it enough as a way of offloading and entertaining – oneself I should add. I feel forced to use the hateful word cathartic. Yuk yuk cliche cliche .My poetry readership consists of just three people – my unbelievably loyal sister (much too complimentary but I love it), my beloved wife (slightly devastatingly honest, thus a tiny weeny bit dispiriting) and my sons girlfriend (student on the masters Creative writing course at UEA – same one Shakepeare did – arghhhh! Fool that I am)
Here is my Christmas morning poem, so that all my blog readers may enjoy are rare insight into my heroic tussles with my muse. Btw The really hilarious thing is how often my poetry site is a target for hackers from all round the world – should I be flattered or fearful? Perhaps it so bad that Anonymous has vowed, as they have against ISIS, to take my site down.
Crying into the light I woke to silence.
My ears popped
I heard her first words fall like brown pears drop.
My mum Mary.
Sweet and blue as a baby boy
Licked me with black lips
Scratched me with straw
And fed me her shitty smells
And cough candy breath.
Warm as a slipper I lay and bathed in her gaze.
Her eyes, egg wet
Her nostrils wet with green
Her breasts wet
My bed wet.
My mother’s snout spoke steam.
I replied –