Procrastinator

Procrastinator

He was quite peckish
but equally in need of a poo
He couldn't decide which need to satisfy first.
Four four hours he sat there in stasis,
days, weeks -
at the very moment he starved to death
he shat himself


I wrote this one while in the big house. My next book but one is going to be a doozy.

07/07

Interrogation. (A sketch/theatrical piece).

Interrogation.

"What am I here for?"
"That's a philosphical question. Criminals aren't supposed to be philosophers. So I don't know whether to chastise you or let you go. It all hinges on whether you are a criminal I suppose. So let's find out."
"What am I here for?"
"I'm the interrogator. I ask the questions. I ask all the questions. Save one. which is 'Do you have a cigarette?' That's the only question you're allowed to ask."
"Do you have a cigarette?"
"No. It'll set the fire alarm off. Interrogation rooms are public buildings too. But here are some nicotine patches. Enough to last a 5 year jail term. Think of them as an incentive to confession. And I'm going to turn on the cassette recorder too. But only to stop your asking me to. Because you're not allowed to ask any questions. This does not affect your statutory rights."
[He turns on the tape recorder.]
"It is a... specific time on a specific date. I am interviewing a specific person as regards a specific crime."
"For the tape, the suspect, having realised it would not be the done thing to ask a question, has raised his eyebrow quizzically as if to say 'you're doing everything by the book then, and no more? No appendix, no second volume explaining the calculations that underlie the cliometrics?' I pause. Yes I am, and I don't like your tone."
"I haven't committed any crime, specifically or unspecifically".
"The suspect seems to have spent some time thinking about this denial and the terms in which it is because of this quite comfortably couched."
"The interviewing officer stated, as if for posterity. This isn't a speaking book, you know,"
"Proffered the suspect, impertinently. It is now... (looking at watch) a specific time, a letter after which is either an a or a p, m. I am turning off the tape to smack the suspect around the chops.” He slaps the suspect extremely limp wristedly. He went to turn on the tape again, but didn't. The suspect said nothing. He turned the tape on again.
"Ow!"
"Shouted the suspect."
"He just slapped me!"
"Lied the suspect, for the tape. Put a brave face on, lad, this is an historical document."
"Mollified the corrupt police. This won't stand up in court, for I have a revisionist lawyer, said the suspect, in a ring-modulated voice."
"Denials won't wash with me, Speer-boy, said me, then, at a specific time, your honour, with delivery akin to that of Alec Guiness, I said. Your two accomplices, acting as the two requisite primary sources, have offered testimony that grasses up your ahistorical version of events and reveals the language used in your denial to be too inflated for your time period and social class. They also maintain you ‘done’ the specified crime."
"Can I have a cigarette?"
"The suspect asked, obviously perturbed and playing for time to think."
"Is my testimony, in your opinion, then revealed to be wholly unreliable, with everything I say to be regarded as historically inaccurate?"
"Asked the suspect, obviously beaten. But of course, I replied, condescendingly."
"Then I confess to the specified crime."
"He admitted. (...) Fuck!"
"He ejaculated, whilst the suspect chewed nicorette."
“Get yo’ fuckin’ tambourines together, an’ lets party!”
“My name is Tjinpo Balasanky, and I like the Stone Roses. Very much.”

April 2001

Consistency

Consistency

'Better to make a bad decision, then stick to it,
than to put it off', my father told my brother,
Kreon and I.

Later, he returned to my mother
as she lay dying of cancer.
Weak-willed worm.

Sky jellyfish

Sky jellyfish

As if on nitrous they float, whip, eddy,
twice-eye level, jerking winter-ravers.
They live on nothing,
twirl, tarantella, tango,
brush tendrils with the winter twigs,
which let go. Then, like they've just seen Alien,
abruptly flip, slap, censor-sponsor
an old man's face.
No matter how high they soar,
our beauty belongs to Tesco.

Kittens with leukaemia (a lament)

If anyone knows of any cat poetry publications or competitions I can enter this into under an old lady pseudonym I'd be very grateful. I can't decide if this should go in 'Richard Tyrone Jones Has a Big Heart' (the book) or 'Crush All Liberals'.

Kittens with leukaemia (a lament)

Poor leukaemia kitties, will no-one stroke them?
Shivering in the cold, no hair to cloak them
If you ask what feline leukaemia is, here's my answer.
it's an immunosuppresant retrovirus which causes cancer
of the white blood cells and then the lymph
it does not affect the dog or the water nymph.

From poor coat, skin infections and weeping lesions,
these kittens suffer, and also seizures.
They cannot eat what's in their bowls;
these cats are not cats that give many lols.
But bald as they are, they can still purr -
you can still feel affection with manky fur.
Touch the poor moggies, then, feel no fear
man can catch nothing from their sad diarrhoea.

They caught it during their gestation
Their mommy never got her vaccination
their owner was guilty of procrastination
the poor kitties will get no compensation.
I curse the heartless God who has made
both a separate leukaemia, and a separate AIDS
for our feline friends.
They near their end;
Hush now;
don't miaow;
sleep, little kitties, you will feel dreamier
For there is no hope for kittens with leukaemia.

I'm off to have a crank.

My annus horribilis, 2011 resolutions & a poem for you, Because I almost died.

It's been a bit of a shit year, to put it mildly, one month of it spent in hospital. Here's what happened:

January: Knackered, Winter, erectile dysfunction.

February: My 30th birthday funeral a success but exhausting despite my only having to lie there. Joined Archway gym to try and get back in shape. Migraines. A threesome fails to appeal. I think I have a chest infection.

March: More migraines, breathlessness, phleghm. Brain scan (negative). Turns out I had heart failure, blood clot on the heart and a chest infection.

April: In hospital for about three weeks in total. Almost died. Failed. You can read about it here: http://www.utterspokenword.com/news/?m=201004 Moved back home with parents for a bit. Mother... confused. Back on benefits.

May-June: In lots of pain walking. At least I lost lots of weight. Regained weight, in fat. Muscles flimsy. Phleghm creamy. Working on Free Fringe Spoken Word, of which I am Director, helps give me a reason for living.

July: Up all night hacking. Go to hospital. DO latitude festival despite being exhausted and in pain, after all, it might be my last chance. Pretty depressed, unable to cry. Looking at mobility scooters. In hospital (again) for three days. Put on new drugs. Begin to get a bit better.

August: 'Utter!' spoken word at Edinburgh Free Fringe. Manage to get through it, great audiences and performances with support of all involved, especially James McKay and Niall Spooner-Harvey. Housemate, flyering for us, which I was grateful for, is disappointed her peformance doesn't lead to instant fame and stops talking to me. Spoken word at the Fringe a great success, we don't lose money on the show. Full report here: http://www.freefringeforum.org/viewtopic.php?f=65&t=911

September: Erectile dysfunction ends. Failed love affair.

October: Unceremoniously booted out of houseshare. Housemates refuse to say what I'm supposed to have done, but housemate from Edinburgh accuses me of being 'homophobic' and 'sexist', which will come as a surprise to most of my friends, especially female and gay ones. Paranoia can be hurtful not just to those who suffer from it. Thankfully, echocardiogram reveals heart has shrunk and ejection fraction back up to 27%. Bought painting of an Indian chief executed by a retard.

November: Back at home. Becomes increasingly obvious my Mum's memory problems are much more than depression, arthritis, and bad eyesight, though she has these too.

Dad inadvertently reveals he has ankylosing spondylitis, degenerative back condition, which can be hereditary. He has known for all of my life and has never told me or my two sisters, or been to the doctor with it in that time. He doesn't even realise/accept there's anything wrong with this behaviour. If untreated the vertebrae of the spine actually fuse together, causing paralysis.

ICD goes off on dancefloor of The Planet nightclub, Wolverhampton. Two more days in hospital before I find out there's nothing (new) wrong with my heart. Was trying to impress girl who turns out to have boyfriend. I have bad ear wax.

December: Do fun workshop for Harringey Disability forum then go off on well-deserved holiday to Cyprus with parents. Winter sun welcome. Back at home, pipe bursts and house floods. Many books, walls, ceilings, destroyed. Turns out, after much fretting, that we do however have insurance. See in the New Year in a B&B in Wolverhampton.



It's a good job I'm on drugs which, by limiting my heartrate, also make it physically impossible to get stressed. Lucky there are these positive side-effects, as I'll be on these drugs for the rest of my life!

I have been reading quite a few self-coaching books to help me cope with all this shite, but I suspect that what I take to be a mature calm about things may also be a resignatory self-detachment in which nothing means anything.

But I have been trying to 'turn positives to negatives'. I've managed to condense this year of misery through the fractional distillation process of poetry into about fifty minutes of amusing philosophical material: my first one-person show 'Richard Tyrone Jones Has a Big Heart.'

And in a year like this you really find out who your true friends are. So thanks to all of you who've been so supportive, and stuck by me despite my being low. You know who you are. Those who haven't can continue to enjoy how their their petty small-mindedness limits their own lives.

I was determined not to let illness defeat me, even if it could kill me. So a few small pricks certainly haven't got me down. If my own heart couldn't finish me off, at least for the time being, next year will be all about getting around the country, doing gigs, earning money doing what I enjoy, and all the haters can fuck off. Life is literally too short. So here's my New Year's resolutions: if I fail, then at least I fail trying.

Health: Get back to normal walking speed & stamina. Walk daily to work up to finish the Offa's Dyke walk in Spring and walk Hadrian's Wall in August/Sept. Lose half a stone. Reward yourself by watching all of Twin Peaks.

Wealth: Go back to self-employment: tour show, do more workshops, tours etc. Aim to earn £10k next fiscal. Reward: one month's winter sun.

Personal: Find a nice girl, by fishing in the right pools, not just the poetry circuit: one show-off in a relationship is quite enough... Its own reward.

And learn to drive (possible as long as your ICD hasn't gone off again). Reward: Plan driving holiday for Spring 2012.


Here's to hoping we all have a Happier 2011 than my cunt of a 2010 has been.
Here's a poem for you from the show, which I'll be doing at 'Utter!' sickness on Feb 1st. http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=169035279801641. Please do give feedback!


Because I almost died

Now every tenner feels to me
as if it's worth a million
Now every song's a symphony
(except for Robby Williams).
Now every time I'm tired I think
'at least thank god I'm breathing!'
and every time I lose my breath,
at least my heart's still beating.

Thank goodness I can walk,
although I can't walk very fast,
for every step's a giant leap
because it's not my last.
Some folks say 'you've been really brave',
but the reason I've not cried
is that now my life has meaning
...because I almost died.



Now every price tag's ASDA price
every slum's a mansion
each poem I write's a masterpiece
despite its dodgy scansion.
Each B&B's the Marriott
each 'not to be''s a 'be'
Each poet I meet's a laureate
and Everyman is me.

Every splinter is a relic
every measure is a bottle
Every poem is an epic
Each short story is a novel
If life's a search for meaning
I think mine might have arrived
For now my life has a narrative arc –
because I almost died!


Now even the centre of Luton
seems a quaint historic town
All my clothes are Louis Vuitton –
because they're not medical gowns.
Now every open mic's a gig,
and every gig's a festival
and every meal's a gourmet one –
because it's not in hospital.

I thought I was going to be in pain
for the rest of a shortened life -
But as my health has been regained
every girl's a potential wife.
I've retarmac'ed my libidinous parking space
yes, I've got back my sex drive (groan)
but it's sacred now, to feel profane
...because I almost died



Each example is a paragon
Each pot noodle is a feast
Every stroll's a London marathon
Now the acute abdominal pain has ceased
There's a meal in every morsel -
every crisp a whole potater -
I feel practically immortal!
Due to my internal cardiac defibrillator.

Though I sometimes feel like an old man
I'm still too young to die,
I've been through the slough of despond, and
come out the other side.
When things got tough, I'd once get low,
hold thoughts of suicide –
but now I never shall, I know,
...because I almost died.



Yes, every pasty is a Ginster's
Every heckler's a mere wag
Every frog's a princess
and every car's a jag
Every dwarf's a BFG
Each lag's a loveable rogue
Every Summer love's Eurydice
each tramp's ...that bloke out the Pogues?
Every mountain is a molehill
Every puddle is a loch
every sunset makes my soul sing
every ham slice is a hock
The Bill's become The Wire
Every mullet is a mane
Each damp squib's a roaring fire
Every Plan 9's Citizen Kane.
And even if I lose my breath
Each gasp's a laugh in the face of death
I'm shit at chess, so screw you, death
Because I'm still alive.


Yes, If words were bullets I'd be a gatling gun
If hopes were bees I'd keep a hive
Though now it's time I stopped prattling on
about how I'm still alive,
because a lot of people who've had heart failure/been in my position...aren't.

THE END.


Thanks for reading all my moanings.

Poem from when I was 17:

Zopiclone's possible side-effects include 'untrue beliefs' and 'floppy infant syndrome'

A dinosaur looks up and tries to think of a major theme for this poem;
but there can be no major theme for this poem, it is about dinosaurs.

An agrarian scialist looms from his loom to gaze forth
at a future that has been, I'm afraid, long discredited.

And these days postmodernist free verse seems like a good idea,
I shall have my teeth replaced with rust
and sell the real to the rich.




Zopiclone, (brand name Imovane in Canada, and Zimovane in the UK) is a non-benzodiazepine hypnotic agent used in the treatment of insomnia. I've given it the title from a note I made on it underneath the poem. I think I was on it at the time. Probably wrote this late at night like much of my writing throughout my life.