I will always remember the colour of your ears. Thinking how quickly the blood had turned thick & pooled, dark and still, trapped in this bits of your body where it stayed after you heart stopped. Viscous, oozing, moving slowly, only with gravity, to the areas lowermost in your body as you lay supine, a blanket up to your chest, the sticky pads of the defibrillator still attached to your skin just visible under the edge of the satin lined cream wool. Your highest features already a waxy yellow, your nose, your forehead, your chin, your chest, making you look like a waxwork dummy. The dark blood hanging in your ears & lobes. I remember thinking on how wrong they get it films & TV. How can they get the colours all so wrong? Why do they lie? When you’re dead, even just an hour after, you turn a horrible fatty yellow and aubergine purple where the blood is draining & gathering and congealing. Rothkoesque, clashing colours, the colours of death on this still canvas, only possible with a stillness that will come to us all.
No one tells you this, I guess youre never meant to know the colours you go….Muma


See Saw..

I gave up food and took up cigarettes. I got thin.
I gave up cigarettes and took up crisps. I gained weight.
I gave up crisps and took up cheese. I gained more weight.
To give up cheese can I take up cigarettes again?


In response to Fidget Spinners and his inability to tolerate them despite them being gadgets for people with ASD…

“My mental-ness doesn’t manifests in physical twitching, mine manifests in mental twitching.”

The Wanderer…

This week he has wandered, but only inside the house & garden. He has wandered and contemplated and wandered about some more. Then stopped wandering and questioned everything, then got angry, then depressed, then confused. He’s broken things & repaired things, then got angry because he broke the things in the first place. He’s questioned why he’s angry, why he’s broken things, why he can’t face people outside this week.
We all know the answer is all to do with his Mother phoning him. She has phoned because she is afraid she is dying, afraid that she’s not recovering from the hip replacement in sufficient time to get the other replaced, she hyper focusing on herself but wants to ask him to give her advice when all she wants to do is moan to him how bad she’s feeling while pretending to everyone else she’s ok. She’s duplicitous and anything he tells her she ignores, she has ignored him his whole life.

“I have to do something, Ive just been in the house all week, doing nothing. Living here is doing my head in. I hate feeling like this, my fucking parents make me feel like this, why can’t they just fuck off and leave me alone. I wish they would just go. F@cking Cu%t, f@cking cu%t, f@cking cu%t, what do I do, what do I do, what do I do?”


Wandering like undead sheep into the abyss,
The only clouds dark, unlined,
People happily fall, unaware of their actions, thoughts, consequences.
No yellow hosts of triumphant beauty welcome them there.
No stars will shine to guide the way, just highly polished pieces of faeces rolled in glitter,
Pretending to be stars,
Pretending to be something they are not,
Toxic shiny plastic squares fall away as they dance with you.
Polluting the vacuous souls
No bliss, no solitude, no pensive mood,
You’re just left with the stains they leave,
Stains that don’t come out..


IMG_8565I have a dog, he smells like feet & tuna, I don’t know why.

He has an uncanny knack of nagging my husband to distraction, he reads his moods and when he’s vulnerable he makes his move onto the sofa in the space my husband has just vacated, or he stares from across the room, burning eyes piercing your psyche until you do something for him. He doesn’t like being stroked, he doesn’t bark much, he’s ball and sausage obsessed and is selectively deaf & doesn’t like crowds, a bit like my husband, they even have the same coat.

I love him…