Tuesday, 17 March 2009

Spring Clean

On Saturday night I cleaned the house. Or at least I made a start. In the end it proved too large a job for one evening, and frankly speaking, too painful a job. I kept finding things which belonged to Morag, and before I knew what had hit me, I was crying like a baby. More specifically, a baby that’s been left for a whole month in an unchanged nappy, gathering soil. I spent a lot of Saturday crying. I’m a big girl’s blouse, I know.

I texted Morag too. I couldn’t help it. I just wanted her to know that I missed her. It’s not that I want to get back with her. I don’t. We’re not right for each other. And that’s that. But I miss her. And I feel terribly lonely without her.

When she didn’t reply to my text, I sent her an email. She wrote back on Sunday. It was a nice email. It felt like we might manage to be friends. One day. Somehow it felt like closure. Like it’s time to stop moping and move on.

So I’m posting this poem now, to get it out of the way. I wrote it some time over the last few weeks. It’s not very good, I’m afraid. This is because I am not a poet. It’s called Stockholm Syndrome. Here it is here:

Since you saw fit to declare our love dead,
I’m free to be wilfully, shamelessly me.
Away from the shame of the shake of your head,
I’m free to be all I suppose I must be.

I'm free to perform my ablutions with vigour,
Whilst loudly declaring with nose, throat and bowels.
I am free to flick floss flotsam onto the mirror,
And dry my clean penis on fluffy face towels.

Should I desire I am free to spit phlegm
Into the tall kitchen bin or the sink,
I’m free to mock Marquez but like Eminem,
And not have to hear yet again what you think.

I’m free to make tea with the milk poured in first,
Then go to bed late and with booze on my breath.
I’m free to drink juice from the carton when thirsty,
And free to make dubious jokes about death.

I’m free to embarrass and say what I’m feeling,
Free to feel furious, free to vent spleen.
I’m free to reveal what I feel needs revealing,
And not give a fuck about keeping it clean.

So here I am free to be me unberated,
Living my life how I like, free from dread.
But freedom for me is a tad overrated,
Since you saw fit to declare our love dead.

No, I know. It’s rather adolescent. I’m sorry.

It’s out now though. It’s done. Dusted and done. Time to move on.

Now I must get on with the rewrites for the book. Then I must get back to the grind and find some more work, because I am skint. And in the meantime I must stop sending drunken emails about moles and tortoises to virtual strangers, because I’m really not doing myself any favours.

And that’s that.

Oh, one more thing. This:

...is from Ange's salt cellar:

So now you know.


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AndrewM said...

Thank God for that.

Let's get on with the good bits..

Anonymous said...

know how you feel fella

Ryan Lawson said...

This is the second lovesick poem I've come across in ten goddamned minutes... is it St. Patrick's Day that loosens the faucets?

Regardless, your poem makes the other one look like someone sketched a suicide note on the wall of a prison cell.

Um - that is meant as a compliment.

Vulcan follower said...

Nothing wrong with being yourself. Best thing to be actually.

On another matter... That lifetime immunity thing you offered isn't working! I'm so shocked! I'd like to receive the appropriate form, so I can claim my guarantee.

yours sincerely... etcetera, etcetera...

Anonymous said...

like the poem. captures quite nicely why i'm going to live alone for the rest of my life. don't want the aggravation.

dogs do not bitch about habits. the like the same music i do. they don't mind the smell of farts...

fuck it. onwards...

La Bête said...

Good bits be buggered, Andy. On with the bad bits!

Good, fella. I’m not so sure I do. To be honest.

Cheers, Ryan. I wanted to ask you where that other poem was. Then I decided it was probably best if I didn’t. So I’m not. (Where is it?)

Vulcan Follower, you – yes, you – are what it’s all about. Immunity kicks in... NOW!

Daisy. I reckon you’re going to fall scalp over bunions in love with someone and be totally inseparable and totally loved-up for evermore. At least I hope so. That would be darling.

oatmeal girl said...

Sorry. Please forgive. I really like your damn poem. There are people who call me a poet but hell, I get all artsy fartsy and self-consciously impressive with words and rhythms and all.

This I really like. Honest. I'm inclined to send it on to the man *I'm* moping over to say, yeah, ok, I understand, you're not really meant to be with anyone, and now I know why.

Good job.


And now, as my friends tell me when I moan too much about my broken heart - go take a nice long walk.

Wisewebwoman said...

Well said Bete, heartfelt and felled heart.
Me too.
I've come to the conclusion I just am not good together-for-ever material.
A weekend is workable. But no more.
And sometimes that makes me so sad.

Catofstripes said...

Oh Bete, you're back. I'm so pleased.

Luka said...

Speaking as one who uses rhyme often, I enjoyed the poem. I was most impressed by the way you resisted any golden rhyming opportunities for "Morag".

Vulcan follower said...

Nope, still not working.

Ah well, what is live without a little emotional pain. Makes you write blogs and poems which other people can enjoy.

As we say in the Netherlands: "Elk nadeel heb z'n voordeel".

Some Chilean Woman said...

Crying feels so good sometimes. I hope you got all the hurt out of your system.

Oh and by the way, I now have visions of you wearing a nappy.

Anonymous said...

That poem is lovely and honest and I know just how you feel! Plus I love that it's brilliant but also has words like "penis" and "phlegm" and "fuck" in it and still be totally appropriate. It's beautiful.

Maria in Oregon

Clare Sudders said...

OK so it's not Byron, but why the hell should it be? I like the poem. I like the sentiment, I like the rhythm, and I like the fact that you know what's coming but still appreciate it when it does.

Lauren said...


I actually liked your poem. good way to vent. also, spring is the perfect time to throw out the old to make way for the new