Three cheers for wine sleep!

So I finally got to sleep at around two o’clock this morning – Tosca hid my ipad to prevent distraction, removed the massive spider from the bedroom (who had turned up to say hello) and also force-fed me two bottles of wine which really did the trick. (I can drink safely now I’m off the anti-psychs – haha, fuck you, vomit choking!) Feeling the withdrawal burn though – I felt like I was going crazy yesterday, though I feel better today.

Toscar and I have been drinking whisky for the past two hours (hence any spelling errors that I will correct in the morning) and now we’re going to ponce ourselves up –

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Then come home and have drunken sex (if we’re not too drunk, of course.)

(I also showed Toscar my ‘Black Diamond’ poem and he told me very forcibly that he didn’t want his arsehole spread around the internet, so I lied and told him that it wasn’t even about him which just made things worse. )

Anyway. Alcohol!

(ps – I did that drawing this morning when I was sober, although it does look like the daubings of a drunkard. Painting on an ipad is really, really hard!)

(pps – there are too many brackets in this blog post.)

black diamond

Black diamond
Between two globes,
(A long lost map
Of forgotten spheres)
A darksome heaven
That has never seen
The sun.

And the balls of your
Feet are the most beautiful
Things I’ve seen in years,
Declawed through
This year of purrs,
And all the miles
Of smiles
They’ve run.

(I prop you up with
The Dictionary Of Angels,
You look fucking
Gorgeous on
Your back.
You’re so shy about
This effeminate pose
But love,
It doesn’t make you
Any less –
You don’t have to join
The circus
Or wax your crack)

I press my mouth
To feathers of tawny birds,
Fighting back the urge
To spell out words,
Fuck
Cherub
Sex,
Spit
Come
Pray
And instead just ram my tongue
Through the middle of everything
I want to say.
With one on you
And one on myself –
My hands are clockwork
Turning hard with the
Efforts of play.

You’re telling me
That if I stop
You’ll kill me,
And that’s fine –
I have never been so sure
Of my indestructability.
I won’t stop,
Not even when I’m
Right up there with God
Picking bits of our bomb-blown
Love affair from my hair,
I won’t stop
Even when my
Arm is aching
And my tongue is a
Tired red snail
(Your fingers bounce
Off the bed
And claw nothing,
As though the very air around
You is a jail)

I wanted you to
Fuck me
But that’s not
Going to happen now,
So I move myself up
To the razzle dazzle
Of a dying candle
And milk marbles
Strike my eyebrow
(So I’m a fraction too late)
No matter,
I just suck down
Your perfect column
Of skin
And drink long and deep
Of the white,

As my head
And my heart
And your breathing
Are as slow
And as drunk
And as ageless
As gin.

How To Be A Certain Kind Of English (Ten Easy Steps)

1.  Understand Weather.

(Strangers on a bench,
Looking up.)

“Cirrus, I think.
Cirrocumulus?”
“Stratus surely.
Or altocumulus.”

(You must also hate the cold
And the sun,
And always wish the current season
Was a different one.)

2. Never Be Honest About Stuff That Hurts.

Pain so bad
Can’t even wank –
“How are you, Arthur?”
“Brilliant, thanks!”

3. Have An Opinion On These People

Katie Price (Feminist? Witch?)
Kate Moss (Goddess? Bitch?)
Stephen Fry (Snob? Wilde?)
Frankie Boyle (Offensive? Mild?)

4. Never Talk About Money.

“So.” An American asks. “How much do ya make?”
“I…I…Oh My God look at that dog over there that has a face like a pancake!”

5. Learn How To Apply The Class System To Cigarettes.

Pipe – Monty Withnail
Silk Cut – Comfortably Middle.
Lucky Strikes – Probably not British.
B&H – Shops at Lidl.

6. Secretly (Or Openly) Enjoy The Royal Family

“So, did you hear what they called the baby?” 
My boyfriend shrugs and says –
“I don’t give one tiny fuck.”
“They named him George. Isn’t that twee?”
“Aw fucking hell, I had a tenner on Louis!”

7. Hey Jude.

If all else fails,
At the end of the night,
Sing na-na-na 
And it’ll be alright.

8. Never Complain About Your Meal

“Hm. These mussels look a bit suspect.”
“How’s your meal, Sir?”
“Perfect!”

9. Always Hate The French, (Even If Your Own Mother Is French)

Numberplate ‘F’
On an articulated lorry.
“Stuck up…onion…bastards.”
(I’m sorry mum, I’m so sorry!)

10. ‘Jerusalem’

Mime a sword in your hand,
Bang your chest with devotion,
Wave the sword about,
Sing with emotion.

 

dilemma

Jesus Christ, my life is just one long parade of spiders at the moment. I was settling down to sleep and out of the corner of my eye spied a fucking beast of a spider on the ceiling. I ran to get the mop from the kitchen, returned to the bedroom, spider gone. So now I’m trapped in here with a huge spider. Do I leave the bedroom door open to encourage it on an adventure into the living room? Or will this just invite other spiders into my bedroom? Fuck damn it!

arsehole of the century

Do you remember
When you called me
‘Arsehole of the
Century?’

I do.
I remember the exact
Shade of red I went –
I can pick it out from
Colourwheels in DIY
Stores –
(“An Arsehole’s
Shame”,
Also available in gloss.)

Look –
I know what you thought
And I know what you’re
Thinking,
But you were never an
Experiment,
Never on a par with a
Night of heavy drinking,
Thinking,
‘I’ll never touch vodka again!’

And no,
I’m not sure why
We still end up in
Each other’s arms,
But I don’t think we should
Talk about it…
What good will it do
For me and you?
Why strip ourselves
Of the only innocence
We ever had?

Reliving you is
A beauty to me
Because you are the only
Souvenir of a past
Before Him,
A breathing reminder
That there was such a thing.

So,
Do you remember
Calling me
‘Arsehole of the
Century?’
I do.
I remember the exact shade
Of red I went,
And I paint my youth in it.

ah, humbug

Image

I woke up feeling a bit odd, a bit panicky, and a bit sick. Crazy Fucking Scotsman (the guy who lives above me) knocked my door as he was harbouring some of my post. He handed me a small parcel (miraculously he hadn’t opened it like he does with most of my damn mail.) I wondered what was in it. Logically, it was one of the three things I’d ordered online this past week:

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So yeah, it might be one of those nice things.

Or, it might be,

Image

This thought grabbed hold of my brain like a Rottweiler. It’s spiders, I thought. It’s a box of spiders.
I began to hyperventilate and tried desperately to calm down.
“Don’t be silly, Arthur.” I told myself. “No one wants to send you spiders.”
But that didn’t work because it’s simply not true!! I can think of at least three people who would happily send me spiders.
This was proper delusion territory – I was thinking of all the different ways I could dispose of the box (if I smash it then the spiders will come out, if I burn it I could set the flat on fire, maybe I could…drown…it? In the bath? Agh spiders in the bath!!!)
It’s always a worry when things like this happen, when I get an idea stuck in my head and no amount of logical assessment will uproot it. Sometimes delusions will stick around for an hour or so and then dissolve without any effort, sometimes I need to crank up the meds to dislodge them, and sometimes they persist for weeks on end whilst I struggle to keep them self contained, like a big mad secretive lunatic.
The most damaging ones (for me personally) are delusions that alter the way I see my own body – for example, I once became convinced that my skin was falling off and the only way to stop it was to cover myself in olive oil. That was one slippery fucking summer, let me tell you. Then I thought that my jaw had become dislocated and I kept casually dropping hints into everyday conversation, like ‘Wow, this is a cracking Sunday roast, hey – is my jaw two centimetres to the left or is it just me?’

The ‘spiders in the box’ delusion lasted about two hours this morning before fizzling out, and then (here’s the best part about being crazy) once the delusion had gone away I thought to myself ‘Hahahaha what a nut I am! Spiders in the box!’ and I had instantly forgotten what it was ever like to be frightened that there might be spiders in that box. It’s a little bit like physical pain – when it’s present and raw and happening, you can’t ever see into a future where there is no pain. And then, when it’s over, you can’t look back. You can’t remember pain, all the words are gone for it, there are no reference points, it’s just… gone. That’s why delusions are so dangerous – they spring out from nowhere and are so easily forgotten. You can only really be frightened of them when they’re there.
So, once SpiderBox was over, I spent the day loosely sketching out some novel plots and eating jam straight out of the jar. Then my sister called asking me if I’d thought about the whole ‘going mad alone and being eaten by Lucifer’ thing. I told her that I’m going to get myself a cleaner, that I’m going to talk things through with my shrink, and I’m going to ask Toscar to stay over more when I feel rough. She seemed happy enough with this. I neglected to tell her about the spiders, or that I was eating jam straight out of the jar.

(There were humbugs in the box, by the way. Tastier than spiders.)