My muse and more gory bits

I am so sorry everyone but as you know, I have taken to writing poetry and it is pouring out of me like gravy. I am sorry because it is such an ‘I am a cancer sufferer’ thing to do, I am really annoyed with myself to have let myself go in this way. I think Clive James is doing the same and I know there are countless others. It must be part of the condition – get serious disease – reach for the pen – gravy. Anyway unlike these here pearls my versification is not for public consumption and is safely password protected from the world. Most of it is dreadful, a tiny part is ok and the occasional word or two is brilliant most important however is it is fun for me, I love it. I actually look forward to sitting down with my iPad, staring into space, thinking of something that sounds good and starting to write. Usually with no idea where it’s going to go.

I used to do this when I was 15. I could churn out couple of verse turners in the lunch break while stalking the sumptuous Cheryl – the girl of my dreams at the time. She looked exactly like M – long dark hair, Mediterranean complexion – fabulous bum – she was my muse – I don’t think I ever sent her any of the poems – I am sure she would have been impressed if I had (not). Instead me and Stephen, yes there were two of us saddos (friendly rivals for her love) would follow her home. We should really have been arrested, she always walked home alone and must have been most put off by these two spotty psychos trailing her like pubescent bloodhounds. Actually we weren’t exactly threatening. The most daring thing we ever did was to say hello to her in the corridor, an event that may well have informed my versification for months. Steven played the guitar (rather well) so he did not need the poetry. Anyway my enthusiasm for writing poetry (after initial encouragement from a Marxist, Messiaen fan, teacher called Mr French – subsequently sacked for subverting the school rules on indoctrination of pupils) was eventually dashed by two events; 1. the emergence of a class poet who was a million times better than me and, 2. a comment from a bastard English teacher call Mr Humphries who reviewed my poem (I was meant to write an essay) on The Wife of Bath as “laboured” – it was the fact that I knew it to be true that dashed my poetic aspirations forever and the fact the Cheryl became pregnant and the ripe old age of 15 and left the school. We all knew who did it – he was very handsome, a monstrous (literally gigantic about 7 feet tall) thug and ended up in jail for GBH. Poor child it occurs to me.

Anyway my muse is now my M – for whom I have written a poem – and yes it mentions her bottom – hence it will not be appearing on this blog.

Other news. I will have to wait until December to find out if the transplant goes ahead. If it does, here are the interesting gory bits.

1. I will have to learn how to give myself injections in the stomach – One per day unless any of you fancy popping over and popping it in.
2. I will have a tube inserted in a vein in my neck (can stay there for a year if required) this will be threaded under the skin so that it pops out, nursing like, somewhere around my nipple.

I promise that these events will be given the online coverage they are due probably as videos.

I have been told my blog posts are a bit long and that they should be on one subject but I cannot think of a legitimate way to round up and round off so I will simply repeat my favourite word of the post – gravy.

I will keep you all posted.

That’s it. Xx

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