If you ask me how to get to the top
I couldn’t tell you.
While mistakes can be alchemised
transmuting trauma
and forging futures front foot forward
I have also danced upon the edge of despair.
I’ve driven myself mad
deciphering depression
and analysing anxiety.
So while I bask in favourable fortunes
I shan’t look to explain them.
Instead,
I shall enjoy the rippling winds of change
and appreciate the pleasure of this moment.
In today’s penultimate NaPoWriMo poem I’ve opted to use the official prompt.
Odin’s eyepatch showed us
that some windows look inwards
ravenous ravens reveal unseen truths.
Eyelids are curtains for the meditating mind.
Stop.
Breathe.
Discover.
Eyelids are curtains for the meditating mind.
Wait.
Relax.
Fly.
Eyelids are curtains for the meditating mind.
Now open them up,
and show the world your light.
Today I’ve opted to use the Local Gems Poetry Press prompt to delicious results.
Ravioli Dolci,
facendo con amore.
Un piatto in piu’
al banchetto dei Sette Pesci.
La famiglia è l’ingrediente segreto
questo aggiunge aroma a un pasto natalizio.
Probabilmente sara’ molto piu’ figo
perché l’ho detto in italiano.
Today I’ve embraced the official prompt of using an entry from the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows.
For three fortnights I’ve pondered
as the diorama spun-
splintering inside my fractured mind.
“I’m aware it’s a game,”
“I’m aware that it’s a no.”
I’m aware I was tripping balls
but it’s an opportunity to grow.
In that realm context brought pain,
sautéed synapses soaked in regret.
Why does everything have to relate to everything
when you’re finding it hard to relate to anything?
Yet I stood tall, I owned the wrong I did to others.
I refused to partake in cruelty even in a realm defined by it.
But now, I must right the wrongs in how I’ve treated myself.
Today I’ve gone with the official NaPoWriMo prompt, and figured I’d make a link between the blue associated with sadness and the blue of the blue/little/fairy penguins.
Whoever said blue is the colour of sadness
never knew Eudyptula minor.
A little penguin with a huge heart,
it’s blue hues as deep as the smiles they elicit.
From mainland Australia
to Tasmania
they create life
2 by 2.
So too on Philip Island
where the sublime innate magic
of the fairy penguins
is on full display.
Like Piplup but real,
We gotta save em all!
Today I’ve opted for the official NaPoWriMo prompt of using metonymy.
Is it a bee?
Is it tea?
Is it a bee eating its tea?
Is it Oasis?
Is it the rain?
Is it euphoria that glides ‘cross your brain?
Is it United?
Is it City?
Is it the pints, the cheers and the ditties?
Is it your hopes?
Is it your dreams?
Is it a place that’s more than it seems.
From Peterloo to the splitting the atom…
it’s Manchester, and it’s fuckin’ smashing!
Today is the first day I’ve gone without a prompt. Essentially it’s because a great development opportunity is available but it’s also one that would potentially fuck my shit up in terms of going beyond what is deemed permitted work.
This development opportunity is designed around providing a ladder up for those with disabilities and from lower socio-economic brackets.
However I have made it known that current DWP rules essentially great an aspiration premium whereby opportunities for advancement act as an aspiration premium.
This isn’t new to me. In 2008 after getting into Manchester University for my 1st attempt at a university education (which was plagued with mental health struggles) I went 3 months between signing up for uni to starting at uni without money because I was classed as student… completely ignorant of the fact I at that time had an insecure tenancy due to it’s infancy after spending the prior year homeless and on top of that having no money to in benefits to live off. This also meant no housing benefit either which meant I’d start university with 3 months of rent arrears.
This new opportunity years later after a year out of work as a chef due to Covid would double what’s deemed as permitted work. I believe opportunities designed to support the most vulnerable in society should also acknowledge the systemic barriers that mean the support offered to such people shouldn’t fuck their shit up. Be creative. Give half as a salary and half as a grant. Split one offer between two people in the same boat with the permitted work situation… £6500 of £13,000 is sure as hell better than £0 which is what I’ve had as a chef for the last year.
For years I was embarrassed of being on ESA, of my disability, and of my mental health struggles.
But now I offer a fuck you to the system and society that made me feel that way… I, am the hammer!
Apply for this grant,
get your dream job.
Stay in your lane,
you dumb benefits slob.
Volunteering isn’t work.
Domestic labour isn’t work.
Experience and exposure isn’t work.
This system,
doesn’t… work.
We’re expected to do better,
we’re expected to be better.
We’re expected to act as if
the aspiration premium of bureaucracy
isn’t a ceiling tinted with rose coloured glass.
But I, am the hammer!
Today’s official prompt of using a Shakespearian insult or even those from Skeletor just didn’t sit right with me. Not when I’ve got a rich history of inventive and highly personalised barbs. When you mix two parts wrestling fan with five parts Mancunian you’re guaranteed a silver tongue that can shimmer as brightly as it’s slices are deadly.
So here’s a story from September 2007 on the 216 bus when an interloper was unclear which of my companions he was referring to.
“Oi mate, is that your bird?”
He warbled unintelligibly.
“No” I protested … with much chagrin
“I’m not into bestiality” I spat back at him.
“Wots bestiality?” bellowed the brute.
“Ask your mother…” I said being cute.
“it might explain a few things”
yet he offered no rebuke.
However what puzzled me most
wasn’t his chauvinistic candour
nor his obliviousness
to my cheeky backhander.
For all the fish in the sea that we swim in,
he just wasn’t clear…
for I was seeing
TWO women.
Today I’ve opted to use the official prompt of writing about the moon.
Drink in the moon
with a big gulp-sip.
Drink in the moon
till you hear that smooth blue click.
Drink in the moon,
don’t you be a fool.
Drink in the moon,
you know it looks so cool.
He loved his friend but hated himself,
fields of gold become pyrite in stealth.
Tell me how’d you become such a fool,
hurtling at hurdles
and drunk at the school.
Faced with mendacity
he resigned himself to chastity
in light of fiery feline ferocity.
Drink in the moon
with a big gulp-sip.
Drink in the moon
till you hear that smooth blue click.
Drink in the moon,
don’t you be a fool.
Drink in the moon,
you know it looks so cool.
If I were a penguin I’d flip, flop and flap.
If I were a penguin I’d fall right on my back.
If I were a penguin I’d slip, slop and slide.
If I were a penguin I’d be the flippin’ guy.
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