Another Dotty Senryu – A Mental Writer’s Mental Lament

 

A Mental Writer’s Mental Lament

 

Being literate

is hard. Often, all I can

write is FUCK SHITE TWAT.

 

 

Shitey Poem – Poemi Classicus

 

Poemi Classicus

 

Arsiderum ep tusti 

corpsicanti fortense.

Pissiflora illicidantum,

fukadukius indi ear.

Horantica in mentalium,

orifungus mushi room;

salivati ondi chinius,

dribblidrooli beestibum.

 

 

A Shitey Poem For Shitey Saturday – The Stolen Shoes

 

The Stolen Shoes

 

When I escaped from the mental hospital

I stole a pair of shoes,

pretty shoes,

prettier than my own black institutional uglies.

The stolen shoes were white and unworn,

immaculate, clean, soft leather mysteries,

with golden eyelets

threaded through with blue ribbons for laces.

They belonged to Mary, Mother of God,

who slept in the bed next to mine

and woke me in the night with her snoring. 

She was an odd one. 

She wrapped beads round her left thigh, like a bride’s garter,

and draped an old scrap of lace over her head for a veil.

I don’t know why she did this;

she had never been married – she hadn’t even kissed a man –

she was sectioned when she was ten.

At the dinner table she whispered Hail Marys to herself

as her porridge, or her lamb stew, or her custard 

dribbled onto her blouse.

Once, she stole all the pears and hid them in her locker –  

the ward stank but it took days for the nurses to find out

where the smell was coming from.

 

Every Friday morning, before breakfast,  

the stolen shoes were brought out and laid on her bed.

She looked at them for a short while then put them away.

Every Friday morning without fail.  

I don’t think she noticed me looking at them too.

 

The stolen shoes didn’t get me very far;

I put them on before I climbed out of the window  

and ran as fast as I could across the grass, 

but they were too small – or my feet were too big –

the soles split when I reached the wall

and started to climb the ladder I had bribed the gardener to place there for me.

I nearly cried when I had to leave those shoes behind in the rose bed. 

 

 

Dotty Days

 

SATURDAY

Sat on my saturnine arse reading The Rings Of Saturn.

Sat-nav — why the fuck have I got one? O, TomTom, Lord of the Wrong Turn, guide me out of this fucking house.

 

SUNDAY

Sun? There is no sun. It’s trapped behind the big, brown melancholy clouds. O, TomTom, Lord of the Turn Right In 300 Yards, guide the sun from behind the big, brown melancholy clouds.

 

MONDAY

Moon day.

Moan day.

I Don’t Like Mondays. BOOM. Shoot the moon. Fuck off, TomTom, you’re doing my skull in.

 

TUESDAY

Chew chew chew a Cumberland sausage in a sugary Mars Bar sandwich.

Choo-choo! Do trains have sat-navs? O, TomTom, Lord of the Straight Ahead, guide the trains along their tracks, up the coast roads and back – please don’t make them fall off again.

 

WEDNESDAY

Woe day? Wedding day? No, I got married on a Friday. I got married at Halloween and I married in silken black (this is a TRUE FACT), but I couldn’t help looking back. Ring o’ ring 0′ rosies, a pocket full of posies. O, TomTom, Lord of At The Roundabout Take The First Exit, guide dead ex-Simon to a nice place of cleanliness and peace and an abundance of stamps for his collection.

 

THURSDAY

I LOVE THOR, HEAR ME ROOOOOAAAAAARRRRR. (Months ago I roared in a post. It made me feel better at the time so now I have a little roar every Thursday morning before I make my Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my breakfast). O, TomTom, Lord of Leave The Motorway, guide the big Cumberland sausage lorries safely to my Tesco.

 

FRIDAY

Friday is now the only day I fry (burn) my Cumberland sausages.

Empty-headed no brain, fried brain, sizzle-pop. Skullduggery?

Freya, Freya, lend me your cloak so I can fly above the bald sea to see what I can see. O, TomTom, Lord of You Have Reached Your Destination, guide us not into temptation, or negation, or consternation. Forever and ever, amen.

*

Albrecht Dürer, self-portrait, 1500

look at the eyes

*

*

 

How Shite Can Poemy Shite Get?

 

Oy, you.

Look at ME.

Look at me,

read me, read me.

Keep reading.

I’m a bad poem.

I’m a really bad poem

about nothing,

fuck all.

 

What did you expect?

We can’t all be Infernos,

Paradisos or Purgatorios

written by genius poets -

some of us were written by dotty twats,

some of us weren’t blessed with nice words

like sin or salvation,

and some of us wouldn’t know the meaning of allegory

if it bit us on the arse

with all the savagery of a starving dog seeking sustenance

because it hasn’t eaten in three days

because it couldn’t move

because a bigger dog mauled its right ear

and tried to chew its legs off.

 

I’m a bad, bad poem.

I don’t rhyme, I don’t scan

and I don’t really want to -

scanning is for cissies.

I’m too shallow for metaphors or similes

but I wouldn’t mind the odd yellow smiley or two

to brighten up my page.

:-)

:-)

:-)

 

 

Keep reading me, reader,

you never know what might happen (nothing)

before The End.

 

That wasn’t The End, by the way.

I’m still here, I’m still going,

on and on -

I can’t finish until I mention

the words SOUL and DEPTHS

and BETWIXT and ‘ERE and

………………………………………….

I forget the others,

I forget my own banalities, my own boringness,

and all the wordy shite I really should learn

if I could be arsed.

But I can’t be arsed, and not being arsed

makes me not only a bad poem

but a bad, LAZY poem,

a bad, lazy poem about nothing,

a bad lazy poem that couldn’t hold a meaning if I had twelve hands to hold it in,

but I don’t have twelve hands

because poems don’t have hands,

we don’t have arms or legs either,

or a head,

or an arse;

we don’t fuck, we don’t breed, we don’t suckle our spawn.

All we can be is what we are.

 

Now is The End.

The End is nigh.

Death beckons and soon I will die.

I did a rhyme

in time.

 

The throes of death fling me here, there and everywhere,

but my formatting is shite so you’ll have to visualise it.

 

Now I’m dead. The End.

 

Oh, wait, hang on,

here’s a nice word with magic powers -

RESURRECTION -

if you’ll come back and read me again.

 

 

 

A Dotty Ode To Love

 

O Sausage of Cumberland,

Thou art beauty in pork,

thy fizzle, sizzle on my grill

when I prick thee

with my fork.

 

O how I love thee,

thy juicy, meaty blob;

thine chewy lumps taste heavenly

when I shove thee

in my gob.

 

If I were handed

the golden sun above,

I would decline, O Sausage of Cumberland,

and ask for thee, 

my one and only love.

 

Dotty Has Written A Song – It’s Called ‘The Fucking Fiddly Folk Song’

 

I’ve written a folk song this morning, just the words, you’ll have to make up the tune as you go along.

 

The Fucking Fiddly Folk Song

 

Chorus

With a hey-ho, fiddly fuck,

Bales of straw and a cripply duck,

Cider and blackbirds and bells on my knees,

The sun in the morning, the wind through the trees.

 

Verse 1

My farmboy is fit and he loves me,

And I love him, I love him.

He’s fit and he’s strong, he can carry a horse,

In one arm and a pig in the other.

Next year we shall wed and lie in a bed,

Until that day-o,

fuckitty day-o,

We lie in the birdshit up high in the loft,

Fiddling tunes in the hay-o.

 

Chorus

With a hey-ho, fiddly fuck,

Bales of straw and a cripply duck

Cider and blackbirds and bells on my knees,

The sun in the morning, the wind through the trees.

 

Verse 2

Skip to the loo, what the fuck shall I do?

I met a wild rover with curly black hair,

His eyes are like marbles, 

They shine and they roll,

And when I’ve had my beer-o,

His voice is like silk in my ear-hole,

Ear-hole, ear-hole,

And when he fiddles, o fiddly-fuck,

his pecs are to die for.

I love him, I love him,

I love him-o.

 

Chorus

With a hey-ho, fiddly fuck,

Bales of straw and a cripply duck,

Cider and blackbirds and bells on my knees,

The sun in the morning, the wind through the trees.

 

Verse 3

My two fit men, one here, one there,

I’m just a young milkmaid, I’m lovely,

I’m plump like a hen, I’m soft like a sheep,

O who shall I choose, O who shall I keep?

Fuck it, why should I have to choose?

Why-o?

I’ll keep them both-o,

my farmboy, my rover,

o fiddly-fuck,

in the hay and the muck,

both-o, both-o,

I love them both-o.

 

Chorus

With a hey-ho, fiddly fuck,

Bales of straw and a cripply duck,

Cider and blackbirds and bells on my knees,

The sun in the morning, the wind through the trees.

 

Repeat Chorus

 

 

Dotty Senryus On My Horrendous Near Death Experience Yesterday

 

Did I Or Didn’t I?

 

The pale horse galloped

but not in my direction,

at least not last night.

 

But maybe it did!

Maybe this IS death – a mad

continuation,

 

a seamless sequel,

infinite persistence of

being what I am.

 

Here’s a question – if

death is the colour of truth,

what shade is the lie?

 

 

I Saw A Face

 

I Saw A Face

I saw it.

Two eyes

a nose

a mouth.

 

A face

on the front of my head,

like other faces

but not like other faces.

 

I’m sure I saw it.

Two cheeks

a chin

a forehead.

 

A face,

almost symmetrical

but not quite -

the eyes were somewhat unbalanced.

 

I KNOW HOW TO STOP GETTING COMMENTS EMAILS WITHOUT UNTICKING THE BOX

 

Do you want to know how to stop getting all those emails when you forget to untick the box on blogs that haven’t had the thingy disabled?

 

 

 

 

Do you?

 

 

 

 

 

 

I know how to.

 

 

 

 

 

I did some investigating while I can’t concentrate enough to write a post.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you want me to tell you?

 

 

 

 

Or are you okay as you are?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Have you sorted it out?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you always remember to untick the box?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HA HA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Okay, enough tormenting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Go to Reader — Blogs I Follow and at the bottom of the left hand column you’ll see, in small faded letters –

‘MANAGE EMAIL DELIVERY SETTINGS’

click on it, and down the list you’ll see a ‘FOLLOW COMMENTS’ box – untick it, and VOILA, no more emails.

 

 

Don’t all thank me at once.

 

An Unpoetic Woman Unpoetically Scorned

 

Up your arse stick your flowery words

and thorny red roses

in a bunch, up your bum.

I’m no longer your wife, your wench,

your skivvy, your drudge;

twenty three years thrown aside,

cast away – for what?

Some dirty young slut.

 

Your ego, your death-fear,

it’s all about you

YOU YOU YOU

you middle-aged twat;

mourning the grey, the droop, the sag,

and those fucking great bags round your eyes –

they cannot lie.

 

Plead a little more, bastard.

Listening? Me? Not a chance,

not a hope in the belly of Hell.

Crawl, you creep,

beg, whimper, whine,

weep me your vows, your promises -

I’ve heard it all before, remember.

 

Why are you here again,

howling your sorrys?

Didn’t you hear me the first fifteen times?

Get it through your head -

you left me, you lost me, 

you shagged us stone dead.

 

Now – now I am ME, free, 

I’ll do as I please,

stay in, stay out, shag about if I choose.

AHA! That look on your face!

I see it, I do!

Ownership.

Jealousy wants me under you, (lying bored),

but acting isn’t my job any more.

 

Leave me alone, now. 

Fuck off.

Go away and rot.

Stick up your arse all your lies and deceits,

up up up

right the way up through your shrivelled old colon,

all the way up through your gutless old guts,

up up up

till they choke you, you cheat -

as one day they assuredly must.

 

 

If You’ve Been Getting Loads Of Commenty Emails…

 

… click on the link to Roly’s blog and he’ll tell you how to stop getting them. All the emails I was getting were doing my napper in before I read this.

Sarchasm2

 

 

 

 

A Dotty Day Out – Adventures With Branwell (Part 1)

 

Yesterday morning I was in a strange double mood, good because the weather was Spring-like, bad because I wanted to go to my MEMORIAL BENCH. I posted a post asking if someone would please lend me their TELEPORTER and I was so grateful and surprised by all the positive replies that I found my little going-out rucksack and filled it with the things I need for going out – Cumberland sausages, 5 bottles of laudanum, 4 packs of beta-blockers, bottle of Diet Coke, bottle of water, hairbrush, purse, Nokia Hard Bastard, and the little present that Scotty bought me. Then I opened the back door and sat down on the lino, as close to the outside as I could get, and I waited. I waited for a long, long time. A long, long, long, long time.

Nobody came.

 

 

I don’t know what time it was when I heard footsteps coming round the side of the house. I jumped up and nearly fell back down again – my right leg gave way, it must have gone to sleep because of how I’d been sitting (cross-legged like a Yogi). It was only Branwell though, happy for a change, so happy the smile almost skipped off his face.

“Dotty, sweet Dotty! What brings you such sadness on this glorious day of splendiferous sunshine?”

I burst into tears and told him.

“No, no, no, come along. Weep not, my chickling, for here am I, Branwell the Magnificent, come to your rescue, sans white charger but with love and friendship uncurbed. Off we go, off we go.”

And he took my keys out of the door, grabbed my hand and pulled me OUTSIDE before I realised what was happening, then he locked the door, took my hand again, and away we went.

 

 

The street was heaving with PEOPLE, shouting bickering squabbling laughing braying PEOPLE, a polarised muddle of the wealthy middle classes posturing and preening their way round the shops, and the dirty, thin and stinking poor. I couldn’t take it all in, there was too much bustle and noise – beggars called out for pennies; women argued with stall-holders, trying for a bargain that wouldn’t happen; scrappy, raggy children ran to and fro, ducking and dodging; a wool-worker coughed and hawked up a great glob of blackness from his lungs and spat it out right in front of me; barrows and carts clattered on the cobbles; horses whinnied and snorted; dogs barked; a handbell clanged and clanged – and Branwell whisked me through it all in seconds, the stench of sewage and sickness and cooked meat and rotten fruit and unwashed bodies so strong I could taste it.

“Hang on, where are we going?” I asked when we’d slowed to a trot and the sounds of the street weren’t so loud.

“Refreshments!”

“Eh?”

“A jar of cheering sweetness, my dear. Your face resembles the sad arse of a sow due for the slaughterhouse. O wretched maid of long torment, your smile would set my heart content. But woe is you and woe is me, diddly dum and fiddly fee. Ha ha ha ha ha.”

“Shut up, div. Tell me where we’re going.”

“There!”

And he pointed to the inn a few steps ahead of us.

“I’m not going in.” My heart was thumping.

“Yes, you are!”

And he pulled me to the door, kicked it open and dragged me inside.

It was so dull and smokey in there I had to blink loads of times before I could see. The room was small and dingy; brown walls, thick sawdust on the floor. A man with massive, black mutton chop whiskers stood behind the bar. Just two other people were there, an old man sitting in one corner of the bench seat that ran across the back wall and down one side of the room, and a boy collecting glasses from the tables.

“Dawson! Two jars!” Branwell shouted, though we couldn’t have been six feet away from the bar. He led me to a table next to the only window in the room but the panes of  glass were so thick I couldn’t see out.

“Sit, sit!” Branwell gestured at the bench with a grand sweep of his arm. He sat down next to me, took his little box of snuff from his coat pocket, opened it and offered it to me.

I shook my head, “Eeew, no thanks.”

He took a big pinch and sniffed it up one nostril then the other. Quick as you like, he whipped out his hanky and started sneezing into it. “That’s better,” he said, his eyes gleaming.

“That’s fucking disgusting.”

He laughed. “No worse than many things.”

The boy brought the drinks to us on a tray, two great tankards of beer. It tasted so strong I had to sip it. Branwell downed half of his in one go.

“What are we doing here, Branwell?”

“Being merry! Sup your porter and cheer up. Have you eaten yet? I am ravenous, starved, I could eat a scabby dog. Dawson!”

“Aye, sir?”

“What’s cooking?”

“Mutton, sir. Broth.”

“Two plates, then. And bread, but only if it is warm. I want none of your mould at my table.”

“Aye, sir.”

The broth was lovely, full of big chunks of fresh meat and veg. The bread was even lovelier, soft and springy and warm. I sneaked a handful of Cumberland sausages out of my rucksack and passed a couple to Branwell. I put mine in a slice of bread and had the best Cumberland sausage sandwiches I’ve ever tasted.

“How’s little Emily today?” I asked when we’d finished eating.

“Still weak. Although your medicine appears to have done the trick. She was up and about this morning, at her desk rummaging through papers. Charlotte scolded her.” He rolled his eyes, sucked in his cheeks, jumped out of his seat and stood in front of the table, his hands clasped together in front of him – “Sister, sister, what ARE you thinking? Shoo, shoo, back to bed!”

I couldn’t stop laughing. He sounded just like her. “She’s not that bad, is she?”

He sat down. “At times she is a terrible harridan, Dotty. Terrible. There are certain particulars that should be kept within the family but quite honestly, I am at my wits end with her antics.”

“Why, what has she done?”

“She burnt many of my writings. Onto the fire, cast into the flames as though they were words infernal, penned by the Devil himself.”

What could I say to that? I knew she’d done some burning – after little Emily died she burnt loads of her poems and edited loads of others (little Emily told me), but I didn’t know she’d burnt Branwell’s stuff too. Before I could think what to say he said,

“They take me for a fool. The Great Published Brotherhood of Whispering Bells. They think I am blind to their secret.”

“What secret?”

He picked up his tankard but he’d emptied it. He banged it down on the table. “Published! They are published and yet they lie to me that they are not, and they continue in their lies day after day. I am not to be told their news for fear it will send me far into a mad wretchedness of mental agonies from which I shall not return.”

I stayed silent. So did he, after he’d shouted for the boy to bring him a refill. I took my Nokia Hard Bastard out to see what time it was but it wouldn’t turn on properly, no signal.

After a while he let out a big sigh. He sat up straight and turned to me.

“Accept my heartfelt apologies, Dotty, my friend. I am a ranting dolt, an angered berk who should know better. I promise I shall not allow our day to be further marred by talk or thoughts of my own grievances when my intentions are to bring a smidge of light and happiness to us both. We, the soul-sick, mired in woe…”

“Shut up, you rhyming twat.” I gave him a punch on the arm.

“Are you ready to move on to the next stage of our adventure?” he asked.

“What is it?”

He smiled, a great big beamy smile, and then he tapped me on the nose with his finger. “Wait and see. Wait and see.”

 

 

(TO BE CONTINUED)

 

The Three Red Bins Of Blogging Award (The Best Award I’ve Made Today)

 

I’ve been bored out of my skull today waiting for the universe to die so I’ve made a new award AND IT’S A NICE AWARD because I thought I’d better be nice for a change in case there IS a god.

This is my new award

 

See how nice I’ve been? I think I’ve been EXCEPTIONALLY NICE, nice enough to get me into HEAVEN if there IS a god.

There are two requirements to having this award -

1 — You have to CLICK ON THIS LINK AND THEN PRESS LIKE

2 — You have to CLICK ON THIS LINK AND ADD YOUR BLOG

 

If you’ve already done these two things you are BRILLIANT and I award you my new award which is a very, very classy award, if I do say so myself. If you haven’t already done these two things GO AND DO THEM.

When (notice I’m not saying ‘if’) you put it on your own site, you can set your own conditions to manipulate your readers into doing what you want them to do.  

Go forth, my acolytes, and continue being brilliant.

 

A Poemy Thing For My Fellow She-Hermits & She-Mentals

 

sisters of ice

 

many are the sisters of ice

who crave the warmth of a dark, solitary cave,

hidden deep in the heart of a far-away mountain

swathed in the plushest, lushest greens.

but all that surrounds them is white,

everywhere white, and clarity blinds to a haze,

rendering useless the attempts of whatever sight,

whatever far-reaching gaze they might once have known.

 

out in the cruellest elements they do not survive. 

there are no directions, no guides to show the way, 

no place to hide themselves for just one restful, longed-for day.

their cries unite to pierce the frozen air

and skim the distance with an easy, lazy grace,

a grace so beautiful it flickers on the eye of the soul,

shining diamond-like in this sad, mad world of silhouetted woes.

 

Doomdotty In D Major

 

Dismal dame of doom and despair,

Dotty am I

and dotty I am;

daily, dutifully, dumbly

I drip my mundane dross into the ether

as each new day drags itself forth

into drab dawns,

indisputably, undelightfully drear.

 

I died, didn’t I?

Death dragged me to his dominions

and dumped me here

to deadhead his daisies,

damned me for days unending

to his dire displays of despicable

and indescribable woes.

 

The view from here is foul,

designed to devastate –

our war-dogs lie dead in deserts

their bodies dust-dried in the heat,

driven there by the dupery

of our dictators and despots

determined to decimate and destroy.

 

Down in dystopia, devils drink

from the dire ditch of disdain

while demons and damsels

with dirty diseases,

dank and heartsick,

drown in deprivation and despond,

decaying docilely

to the booming, beating din

of Death’s deafening drum.

 

The dead and the done for,

the sick and the starved,

devoured, disconsolate,

disparaged, doomed to damnation

by devious, demented

denouncements of decency.

 

I dream of a deity,

undreadful, undeterred,

worthy of devotion,

disciplined, driven, deft,

disposed to disarm and deny tyrants

their delusions of demigod status;

a divinity who deigns to descend

from his detachment

to lay his indebted, duteous hand on mankind.

 

But the damage is done,

(was done, long ago),

and it will devastate

with doubt, dismay, distrust,

and floods of blood

for all generations to come.

 

I died, didn’t I?

Didn’t we all?

 

 

A New Dotty Collection

 

I’ve started a new collection. 

Hellosailor sparked the idea.

It’s going to be FUCKING BRILLIANT.

 

GO HERE TO SEE WHAT IT IS

 

I want EVERYONE TO CONTRIBUTE TO MY COLLECTION.

Thank you.

 

The F***ing Migraine Poem

 

Light, light, light

bright fucking light

bright bright bright

bright bright

fucking light

beautiful

like Sirius in my eye

 

Dread dread dread

overwhelming dread

dread dread dread

dread dread

fucking dread

of what’s about to happen

in my head

 

pins pins pins

tiny stabbing pins

pins pins pins

sticking in

fucking pins

paralyse 

the whole of my right hand side

 

Sick sick sick 

sick vomit sick

sick vomit sick

sick sick

fucking sick

and more sick

and more and more and more sick

 

sharp sharp pain

high piercing pain

pain pain pain

pain pain

fucking pain

white spikes of fire

from my brain

 

still still still

stay fucking still

stay fucking still

still still

fucking still

stay fucking still

stay absolutely fucking still

 

hour hours hours

long fucking hours

long like days days days

fucking hours and hours

and hours

of pain pain pain

pain pain

 

sleep sleep sleep

blessed fucking sleep

sleep sleep sleep

sleep sleep

fucking sleep

and when I woke at dawn

the fucking migraine had gone

 

strange strange strange

very fucking strange

strange strange strange

strange strange

fucking strange

this eerie otherness

that will stay with me for days.

 

 

Stinking Stillness – (What To Do)?

 

the towels stink

i stare at them and stare at them and stare at them

but they still stink

 

A Dark Shitey Rhyme (Not Happy At All So Don’t Read It If You’re Feeling Down, My Chickies)

 

The God In The Corner

 

Look inside my head.

What do you see?

Darkness and ugliness

crawling through me;

deathly and cruel

like the venomous asp

or the sly anaconda

tightening his grasp.

 

Witness my madness

and sadness and woe,

creeping and crawling,

pathetically slow;

laying thick traces

of putrefied slime

that harden and freeze

with the passing of time.

 

Thanatos waits with his

watch in his fist,

hating and timing

this pulse in my wrist;

tapping his feet

in time to the ticks

with a nod to the Ferryman

moored on the Styx.

 

And I want to, I want to,

I want to so much -

run  to him, plead with him,

feel his cold touch;

but I can’t / and I won’t

and I can / and I will

and I do / and I don’t

so he teases me still.

 

 

Happy Mother’s Day, Meine Mami – Here’s A Brilliant Rhyme For You

This is a Happy Mother's Day flower for meine Mami. I can't give her a real flower because I don't know where she is.

 

 

 

If anyone got a post in their email that isn’t here now it’s because it was a PICTURE POST that I made for meine Mami for HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY with some lovely pictures and captions and it was lovely and it was FUCKING BRILLIANT – but it SHAGGED MY LITTLE BLOG RIGHT UP because I can’t do pictures. So I’ve made a little rhyme instead –

 

 

 

 

 

A HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY RHYME FOR MEINE MAMI

 

Where have you gone, meine Mami?

It’s been years since we last had a hug,

since then my brain has gone gammy -

it’s all manky and skanky with fug.

I miss your old legs, meine Mami,

and the fun and the laughs of our games

with the butter and mayo and jammy

that we spread on your varicose veins;

and your laugh, like a crying old donkey

with its tail trapped in somebody’s door;

and your eyes, even though they are wonky

and as grey as the dust on my floor.

Please, please come home, meine Mami,

your absence is harder than stone

and it hits with a quadruple whammy

each hour when I’m sitting alone.

Meine Mami, I miss and I love you

so much that it makes me feel sick;

when you want to come home I’ll be waiting

with a Cumberland sausage sandwich and a plate of McCain’s Chippy Chips and a packet of Hobnobs and a BRAND NEW BRICK.

 

 

 

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY, MEINE MAMI

 

 

 

 

Yet Another Dotty Gloomy Shitey Poemy Shitey Pile Of Shite (Sorry)

 

Wraith

 

like some ancient, lost ethereal thing

on and on I stumble

 

down springs, autumns, winters, summers,

into the slows and sloughs of remembered other days

 

where I sift through piles of sighs

green with lichen and moss,

 

harvest memories of a kiss,

a smile, a touch, an eyeflash

 

 

there are no flowers…

just memories, like raptors, gather

 

 

another dawn breaks

and I wake

crying in colours and mad, mad sparks,

trying to suck the screams back into my heart

as the sun

my beautiful sun

slides from the throat

of the beast

 

 

I Made A New Page For You While I’m Waiting For The Boilerman

 

It’s for you all (y’all) to add your links to your blogs and so you can find other good blogs to read.

SPREAD THE LOVE, MY CHICKADEES, far across the wide, wide, WordPress.

Add your own blog to DOTTY’S PET BLOGS.

And go and visit each other.

But always come back to me.

Because I love you.

You are ALL beautiful.

And sparkly.

No exceptions.

Except one.

 

Dotty’s 100th Blog Post (And It’s F***ing Brilliant) …

 

… or it would have been if I could have been bothered writing a post. But I can’t be bothered, I’m knackered after all the commotions and shite so I’m going back to bed and this is all you’re getting today.

Anyone have a problem with that?

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT — I came back because I forgot to tell you what I did. LOOK HERE  

 

I AM A HACKER

AND IT IS GOOD

BECAUSE CLOWN’S ARSE IS ON FIRE

AND HE’S IN A BAD MOOD

 

 

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

 

GOTCHA, BOZO.

 

Dotty Does Another Shitey Poem To Keep Her Occupied

 

 

Terpsichore Dances

 

she stirs, at one faint pluck of a spectral string,

to tend her hair, her lissom fingers

wrapped over the crystalline comb;

drum-beats creep spryly round the moon

and through the wind, stroking ears of corn,

fields of solidago, apple trees, larkspur

and silver birches that sway

in anticipation of what is to come.

 

she says, is it time, is it time?

and the sweet, sweet rot of her cerecloth

scents the pregnant air with delight.

 

songbirds race on thunder, spilling trills across the sea,

rain falls in quavers and she leaps to her feet,

moves in lightning streams of mercury glissades

faster and faster, kicking the earth in twists and craves.

the screams of her body, in its witchly dance of rite,

trace the antiphony of the storm-spinning night

leaping higher and higher, the chorus of her white feet

lighter than breath.

 

hurtling over the heads of men, children, ladies,

lords and queens, she is the choreographer

of their opus-spangled dreams;

they raise their heads to see,

to sigh,

to gasp,

and to weep,

and when she is gone

they all lie down to sleep.

 

 

The Dotty Headbanger Award For Being Mental And Loving It

THE DOTTY HEADBANGER AWARD

FOR BEING MENTAL AND LOVING IT

 

 

I feel like a horrible cow for not accepting awards that people give me so I’ve decided I’m still not going to accept awards, instead I’m going to GIVE OUT MY OWN AWARD because I’m nice and kind like that and it is bettereth to giveth than to receiveth. Also, I needed to show off and brag about my new-found skill of being able to WRITE INSIDE A PICTURE which I spent all morning perfecting.

I’m not really sure how this award thing works, but from what I’ve seen there are specific QUESTIONS TO ANSWER, so here are the questions for THE DOTTY HEADBANGER AWARD FOR BEING MENTAL & LOVING IT.

 

QUESTIONS TO ANSWER

1.  How many bricks do you own?

2.  How many Cumberland sausages can you fit in your mouth without chewing?

3.  What is your most inventive way of using biscuits (or cookies if you’re American)?

4.  If it was made compulsory to have a mental illness which one would you choose and why? (If you have a mental illness already you have to choose another).

 

 

So now I have to give it out to people – BUT I CAN’T, I don’t want to leave someone out and watch them sitting alone in the corner crying because they haven’t been chosen (like when the BITCHES who chose the netball teams never picked ME). So what I’m going to do is present it to EVERYONE WHO READS MY LITTLE BLOG AND EVERYONE WHO PARTICIPATES IN ITS MENTALNESS to say THANK YOU VERY MUCH and you all (y’all) can do what you want with it, either give it out and MAKE ME VERY FAMOUS or ignore it (at your peril).

P.S. You now have a choice of TWO pictures, mine (the one I sweated blood and tears over) or the new posh one made by clownonfire (the link to his blog is on the right at the top of Dotty’s Pet Blogs). Choose which one you want.

 

More Mushy Untitled Poemy Shite

 

I am from the far place of shadows and quiet desperation, hiding inside layers of old wordstacks that litter these grey and thistled fields.

The wind, an eerie falsetto, wails in accents lost to all but the half-living, calling me out into the thick and sorry night. But I don’t mind darkness any more — what use is light if I cannot see his smile?

Savage storms blend into my grief with ease, leaving no trace, yet oceans rise from a single tear on the swell of all those tomorrows, gaping voids, chasms of fear, with only the writing of me to show me I am real.

The sun is gone and what once was precious is now dust. From this dust I spin stanzas that ache with the burdens of the lost, and tie grief-laden raindrops into knots that lie here beside me, piled up.

Over the poem comes the sound of a drum, yet the beat means nothing, nothing at all, mere counterpoint to the creak of a worn soul buckling before the final snap. Never, never was a life so long and so damned.

I run and my foosteps are light, but the very fall of them makes the grass bleed and the flowers shrivel to skeletal stumps. Round and round the wordstacks I go, charting the course of a life once lived, now lost.

 I am from the far place of shadows and quiet desperation, no escape, no redemption, so I crawl back to hide within the confines of this poem. Where else is there to go?

 

 

A Few Oggerys For Hermits

 

Bloggery – (Dah-Dah!!)

Sloggery – (housework)

Cloggery – (what happens to my sinks when I don’t do any sloggery)

Foggery – (of the brain)

Coggery (the process when I try to think)

Joggery – (on the spot)

Soggery – (wet, teary pillowcases)

Toggery – (the duvet I wear all day)

Moggery – (hatred of other people’s cats)

Hoggery – (Cumberland Sausages)

Smoggery – (when I’m cooking Cumberland sausages)

Hoggery # 2 – (collecting! and keeping!)

Boggery – (this is what happens when my loo gets cloggery if I’ve neglected my sloggery)

 

 

 

Ode To Prozac

 

Fluoxetine, Fluoxetine,

I cherish thee, olde friende of mine.

Methinks thou hast a magick art

that banished demones from my heart.

 

Thy brought to my dimme worlde a shine,

uplift’d me from deepe decline,

my sicken’d soule ail’d greatlye till

I founde thee, little happye pill.

 

Oh, dearest friende, Fluoxetine,

thou sav’d me, and now I art thine…

I owe thee honour and respecte,

e’ermore shalt I stay in thine debte.

Some gloomy untitled shite by Dotty

Untitled

 

In my millionth incarnation

there are cinders in my voice

and wings on my back.

 

Mother, I was never a Goddess.

Why do you think that,

when my ghost still pole-dances

round your heart?

 

On some high mountain

of the waxing moon,

you will eat my blistered secrets

as my corpse bleeds blue,

 

you will gather cups and children

in the salt of your skin,

ancestral jewels in your belly,

amber waves of penance,

and four old dove hearts  to tie around your neck.

 

Please will you resurrect my fingerbones

without a twinge of longing

for the hours they were twined around your own.

I really would like to

gnaw at my fingernails again.

 

I wish you would shine a bright light

into my blackened lungs, just for a laugh.

But maybe not – my buoyant shriek

would push right into your guilt,

the famished blade twisting greedily

on the second plunge.

 

Where is my head?

 

All I can see when they lift the sheet

are two smiling tonsils, fat with memories of giggle-smoke.

And a toe.

But the coroner’s report will no doubt reveal

I had a heart I never knew.

 

 

Life’s Illusion (or, when Dotty is sad she writes mushy shite)

 

Nothing is truly what it seems. Love wears no righteous mask where sunlight creeps.

Water is air, to a fish, and dark is light when light absorbs gloom;

seconds span the night, and each step taken is a milestone passed and gone

as my wintered limbs spread upwards, my arms the branches of an old, old elm.

Seasons meet and merge, no word exists for those in-between days,

but time, in all its fickleness, is non-existent in a multi-layered dream.

Old lace and dainty pearls adorn the frilly hem of my chocolate dress,

and life, that frenzied satirist, pays lip-service to death.

I have grief at my window, in the form of a brand new day,

while I sit here, my well-worn soul too weak and settled in apathy.

Swifter than a dragonfly on wing, (know this),

the curve of a single tear, when touched, dissolves to dust.

 

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 564 other followers

%d bloggers like this: