Whips and Chains - The End.

I would like to dedicate this post to my friend, Discordian High Priest Nick Margerrison: "The critique says more about the critic than the criticised", and to you for tolerating such indulgence.

Like all good intentions my goal to be more attentive with this blog fell to shit midway through last year, when I was side-tracked by a relationship. As I swore off relationships, I unintentionally ended up in one. An actual relationship. An almost-in-love-but-not-quite relationship. My first in five years.

He was intelligent, sincere, eccentric, charming; a big character. One who would call me out for being a gobshite. I liked this fella; he clearly liked me, to the extent where there was some imbalance, but I was complemented and gifted with generous tokens endlessly and this was new to me. He thought me sexy, talented, funny, and many other adjectives that meant I'd allow him into my 'den of sin' with ease. I felt like a Queen. 

Being fully aware of my nuclear-like intensity that has been my undoing many times prior, it became apparent early on I was now on the receiving end of an individual who was too much. I was experiencing me, and how I'd behaved with people I've 'cared' about, when in reality I'd been sabotaging any chance of cohesion. Enjoyable at first, his demands for my attention and the frequency with which we were in each others company was beginning to choke me. 

My career means an awful lot to me; I love my work and entertaining people, and his lack of understanding about how as a 'radio personality' and performer my ego or 'extended character' is integral to how I earn a living caused a big rift. He accused me of being self-centred, selfish, egotistical, ungrateful - accusations I don't deny. I AM self-centred. At this stage in my life I have no responsibilities. I only have to look after myself; I am and have always been self-employed, and the ungratefulness I can only attribute to his insistence in doing an awful lot for me, and when I rejected him - as you might expect - you will be called ungrateful for not reciprocating such attentions. For all my 'faults' I am fully aware of my self-contained attitude, and this may cause friction when attempting to include someone in your life who doesn't really get 'it'. Finally, when I felt my independence was being infringed, and that couple-morphing was occurring - he pushed, I pulled - I couldn't do it anymore; it was making me ill. I had to 'call time'. 

An unfortunate choice of words in hindsight. 

But of course, there's more to it than that...

I haven't really discussed my addictive/obsessive personality in the past. It exists within the family. My dead dad had a plethora of excesses. My brother is a sugar fiend; my sister a bread junkie, and me, well add the two and multiply by everything else. My self-control is pitiful. Fortunately I have been able to exercise innate sensibility with regards to avoiding wholly destructive temptations where others have failed, and sadly lost. 

I may have alluded to a particular 'acceptable' addiction through the stream of naive poetry that was pouring out of me during December 2011, but I've never been direct about it. Stigma's linger and damage reputations and credibility; they hurt. First hand, I know this is fact.

So let me tell you a story. And it is a story. The entire experience felt and still feels filmic. 

I was very ill over two years ago, when depression visited me for a lengthier period than I was able to recognise, and it finally culminated in a mighty crash. I'd encountered the black dog on two other occasions, but never with the severity of the bleakness leading up to the events of 2011 that I believe had been building for around 3 years. Awful. This hadn't been aided by my GP at the time, (and yes, this did actually happen) telling me to "pull yourself together". I attempted to, but in flailing for clarity I opted to ignore myself through self-medication. In addition, I hadn't helped matters by enduring (and not seeking help) and suppressing, via illicit means, a physiological illness due to my absolute necessity to continue funding myself (via my self-employed means) to remain in education. Taking time out was an inconceivable idea. Additionally my family weren't close by to realise how thin and crazy I was getting. And I was clearly sedated 'elsewhere' not to give a flying shit.

To two years later and following a continuance of prior habits - to a lesser degree - it finally took this relationship to realise it was only me who could rebuild myself. And for that insight I have to say this is the best relationship I have ever had. 

Observing my former mate, I saw myself in him; mirrored in his behaviour. His actions and the excess he embraced left me in disbelief. It became evident that his indulgence was not only disrupting his life, but also holding him back and making him ill. Of course, at first I chose to ignore it, and believe his tales of shaking hands were due to medication, but it was staring me in the face, and blinkers on, I chose not to question. This guy had a problem. Subtly, in companionship I began to drink a little more than I was used to, disguised as the quaffing of quality wines; smoking more fags to accompany the drinking, and dabbling in recreations of the past when stress reared its fearful head. This was becoming unhealthy. I'd been here before. But the turning point wasn't too far off...

When I returned from a very intense day in rehearsal, I dropped by his house as I hadn't heard from him regarding prior arrangements. What I found was arresting. When he failed to answer the door, I shouted through the letter box. It was then I heard the sound of rain coming from inside the house. I tried the front door, it was open. Diving in, I shouted his name. He, thankfully, responded. As I discovered, four hours prior he'd returned from a bender to take a bath, but instead, having ran the bath, got into bed for several hours of slumber. The house was shitting water. 

Calmly, during the clean up of Operation 'My-House-is-Fucked', he remarked it wasn't the first time this had happened. Nor the second.

I was speechless.

How can you live like this and think it normal, or acceptable? And why - after the first time - would a massive alarm not go off, "Oh I dropped a bollock there, mustn't let that happen again."

Shortly thereafter I ended the relationship. I'd been lucky, my by-proxy warning flare had been fired. 

Since January 1st 2014 I have been sober and I haven't touched a cigarette or any other 'herbal' relief. And I hope I remain strong enough for it to stay that way. I now run to relieve the stress, and I'm losing weight and feeling reborn almost.

My new life begins this year. I can only hope that my rediscovered clarity, focus, fitness and happiness continues. I have never felt stronger in recognising my faults and taking responsibility for them and in doing so, looking after myself and being a 'good' selfish. 

Changes will be made. I can't drink, because I will smoke, I will become sluttish - and that's not me. I have to socialise in other ways and I have to develop relationships that don't involve talking shite down the pub; friendships with real depth. 

I'm becoming someone else without a glazed outlook blurring those sharp edges of experience. I don't know quite - fully - what she's about yet, but I'm willing to have a craic. And it feels fucking fantastic. I'm finally free! This car crash of a woman was not a write off, and I hope that others who too fight their own demons through excess can see that truth isn't that scary. But it is down to yourself. Be selfish; be self-centred, be interested in you.

For me, it's early days, but I'm so proud of myself for finally getting on track.

This will likely be my last blog post. Thank you to all for the attention, particularly my plethora of amazing friends - I love you all so much, without you I am nothing.

Got to go, this big (baby) bird has got to fly...

Blackpool

It's folds they unfurl in a jaded golden mile

As real as a whore with a welcoming smile

For it'll take your wallet and then open wide

Come to Blackpool - try and find the pride!

They shit and they piss without a second thought

The council make decisions that must have been bought

For the triffids you see erect in the square

Are brutal and dominant, designed for a dare?

This Victorian seaside town that once was the place

Rattles and creaks; crime stats disgrace

So how do you scrub up these decades of faeces?

When they're all boarded up, advertising leases

The glass on the beach, the pregnant fights

20 watt bulbs make up a string of 'lights'

They burnt the fun house - the corrupt at the pleasure 

Bullying their all, no longer selling heather

And to polish this turd, you'd need a buffer made of mallows

No vision, no future, it's detritus in the shallows

What the landlady needs is someone with vision

To prevent the corrosion and decorate the fission

Someone! Rescue the Golden Smile with class

Bring the creatives to attract those with brass

Change the game, invent a hatch

Or just burn the fucker and start from scratch

.

Dear Deidre, my arms are too long.

Hold up there, love.

I've been a sporadic user of dating websites over the past 5 years. I take my time, drop by, see if there's anything a little bit different out there, maybe drop someone a line. But I largely lurk like a Victorian prostitute in Whitechapel.

I've physcially met around 8 people via websites. 3 of them I'm still in contact with. 1 of them is one of my best friends.

Two people I've REALLY liked who I met to the extent of being obsessively lustful and envisaging all manner of possibilities but then it becomes weird. Ah lust - and it's mechanics of chemical business, blood flow, touching, giggling and voodoo.

I like touching things. Not to the extent where I develop callouses from the endless friction, but, certainly erring on the 'she-touches-too-much-stuff' side. Damn me and my stupid hands, because they get me into head trouble when that happens within intimacy and I shift into a dribbling spaniel with the infinitely wagging tail.

Uncool dribbling spaniel.

And I can't play games, because I'm rubbish at them. If I wanted to play psychological manipulation, I'd have to go out with someone who I didn't like that much, and keep their interest by simply not being that interested. True love.

As a romantic, I'm destined to die broken-hearted. The melancholy that plagues the romantic is the downside of the cosy ideal. I feel sad and heavy hearted that I'm single, as it'd be nice to have fun with someone who was quite cool a bit more often, but here's the problem - the cool never have time for the uncool. Phil Cool is the exception. Tragically, Phil, 56, has no friends because he has a tendency to 'anaconda' them whilst doing an impression of a swamp creature in social settings.

Uncool anaconda-juice corroded dribbling spaniel. Wow, metaphoric.

It's time to be as honest as - someone who works in bullshit - can be. I'm going to drop the 'spin' on my dating profile. I'm going to lose the bullshit. And I'm going to be as unromantic as possible.

No of course, that'd be stupid. I'll die from choking on a hair ball having never loved again.

This is clearly another work-in-progress, but for now I need to sit on my hands and work out this Mr Tickle-sized-knot.

Fact you (1/30)

The first challenge is to give you, dear penis-cream-robot, more insight into who I am by bringing you 20 facts about me.

Let's go:

I have only been in love once.
I didn't vote in the last election, and likely won't in 2015.
I have licked Billy Corgan.
I have been caught up in an armed siege.
I've performed the Heimlich on a stranger.

I have a recurring dream about flying in a yellow Volvo.
I'm not a real ginger.
I have had a relationship with a feeder.
I am an uncontrollable blusher.
I have a baffling crush on the bald bloke from 'Aqua'.
When I was 8, I really, really wanted to be a pathologist.
I am the youngest of three.
I had a fling with someone who dumped me a month before winning the Perrier in Edinburgh.
I was a qualified cycling proficiency teacher.
My favourite colour is orange, but sometimes turquoise.
Though 'Northern' I was born in the South.
In Primary school, I once pooed my pants 7 times in one day.
I'm a thumbsucker.
I have lived in 4 different countries.
I tell people I've punched a horse. I haven't.

Lively up yourself CHALLENGE

Oh go on then...

The 30 day challenge is largely put in place to aid writers block, offering outlets of cerebral guff to aid some form of cohesive creativity. I'm up for that, as I've started to notice I'm dumbing myself down by becoming solely interested in how critical my residential bin stink is getting, and to be honest, I'm sick of writing bloody lovelorn poetry. Tragic.  

Additionally I'm aware my blog volume has been a little sparse this year, and for the sake of consistency I need to pull my finger out, or it'll just fall by the wayside and resemble everyone-evers MySpace page.

So firstly, a proviso, I won't be doing it everyday (as I have an erratic work/social life that lacks routine and often doesn't permit downtime), but I will attempt to complete 30 posts no matter how mundane, self-indulgent or taxing. And with those three adjectives, I know you're sold, right?

I can't promise a read of any interest at all, in fact I suspect the only readers of this blog are robots trawling for gaps to spam innocents with the hottest new penis cream, but well, this is my place in the ether space, so I'm parking my bullshit here (and there and there and there). I welcome suggestions about any topics/questions you'd like to challenge me to waft about. In fact I'd appreciate the mind chowder. You can contact me on vixmcglynn@gmail.com - and that's not just you, Mam.

Song

Get your hands off me,

I can't handle the touch.

I've lost myself, 

This is too much.

Swaddle me, and tighten,

Speak to me and know.

Pull back, and nourish,

Breathe, let it go.

Cut off my hands, 

Rip out my eyes,

Strap me to beds, 

Deafen me with lies.

Don't come one step closer,

I'll melt by the light,

I have to control mine,

Evade lustful fight. 

Cut off my hands, 

Rip out my eyes,

Strap me to beds, 

Deafen me with lies.

Dig out my heart,

Pull out my tongue,

Stop me from feeling,

Hypnotic love song.

Dig out my heart,

Pull out my tongue,

Stop me from feeling,

Hypnotic love song.

. 

Swerveball with Mr Shitcad

Mr Stevie Shitcad examined himself in the mirror, his testes felt normal, and popping his collective shaved gonad into his snug pouch, he yelped "...better get to it!" before turning off Bette Midler's greatest hits, spinning on his heel, and heading for an important date with a workman.

No not really, Stevie was 117% hetrosexual, even though you'd imagine he worked in a theatrical costume department, plus his name WAS Steve. The gay name.

Stevie had a problem aside from his non-homosexual-homosexuality. He was on the waiting list for a delicate operation and was meeting with his consultant Doctor Apathetic - who was hoping, but wasn't massively bothered, to cure him of his unfortunate affliction. It was a terrible story.

Stevie, as a baby and just taking on solids, began to convulse and produce his first digested matter via his mouth. His insides were all wrong. He shat from his mouth. Everytime he opened his mouth, a smooth jersey-potato-sized turd would pop out! But he didn't let his unexpected face shitting get to him; over the years he found that some women, when faced with such vulnerability, gave him more of their time. Yes, it was the sympathy vote Stevie got, a cheap trick but one that had led to the contraction of over 15 sexually transmitted diseases. He wore his weather beaten cock with non-gay pride; his confidence betraying it's stump like-length but extreme girth, that gave his member the appearance of an undercooked american pancake. When he confessed his unique genital foible, usually in tears, sometimes in the bookies, women sensed a vulnerability so powerful they started lactating full fat cream. When paired with the disclosure of his aural digestive foible, women had been known to start contracting and produce a Kinder Surprise containing the rare crocodile-on-a-skateboard figurine. SURPRISE! That's right, Stevie Shitcad was a serious - yet really obviously bad - player. "You can't have your cake, and eat it!" was an all too familiar phrase to Stevie, who wished people would stop buying him cake and not letting him eat it.

Stevie died a fortnight later in the gruesome manner you'd expect, he had become too full of shit.

And the moral of the story? See Doctor Immediately. He's more prompt with medical action.

Braised

You touch her hair, I wish it was me. No chance, at best, I imagine a three. Then who gets the meat? And who gets the veg? I can feel the heartburn, as I starve on the dregs. She's too good for you; my blinkers they fell, give it ten more days, the ego will quell. But now I hang, as spikey gooseberry, perplexed why onearth he'd choose to lose me. She's a good 'un; ample; a clever charm, Picture painted green-eyed-storm turns sudden calm. And I shouldn't feel discontent at this new affair, I just wish, once more, he might touch my hair.

Elament

Shine for me lightbulb boy
Shine so bright
To see those eyes ablaze, as if I were
The only one to turn you on.

Birthday

 

 

 To celebrate commemorate, I've written this verse.

For the past year, at best, has extended its terse.

For the black that enveloped and smothered my all,

Has thankfully receded; an ascent from the fall.

 

For the ebony cloak that shrouded my joy,

Came for the hat trick, and rendered me coy.

But this one was different, a duo in force;

Numb, and deflated, strangled remorse.

 

The trudge, and the dredge and the suffocated ego,

Called into question 'where the fuck did she go?'

Reflects and processes; concludes pragmatic,

The hyper obsolete, remainder empathetic.

 

Breaking the cycle of crushed resignation,

Suddenly strength surfaced, without hesitation,

I clung to it tight, climbed, came awake.

Those wings that were lame, at once, reinstate.

 

Don't lessen the spirit, tenacious thee,

Explore all the corners, resolve comes from me.

And now I assess the errors I made...

The friends I have lost, loved ones that stayed.

 

And the lessons I've learnt in the year that passed,

Imprint their experience; oaken aura cast.

So to my true loves, my safety net crew,

My all is ever grateful for the existence of you.

Agapoo

Black Lace, Black Lace, You’re a fucking disgrace,

You take to the stage with amateur haste.

Agadoo you do, in presenting your case,

But look at your flip flops, they’re so out of place.

Where are the sequins, where is the cheese?

I came to watch you, but who the fuck are these?

They’re not the real ones ‘SUPERMAN, please?!’

Flabbies soaked in bin juice; inflated fees.

So whatever happened, whatever went wrong,

Just turn on the backing tape, crack on with the song.

And I’m guessing the set won’t last too long...

Finish on a megamix, pad it out with a cong...

A, call it a pony for a turn and a spout,

Don’t worry about showbiz, it clearly means nowt.

Where’s the sounds that once had the clout?

Aired as flash-in-the-pan novelty no doubt.

So bucks fizz your ideas, and give it a try,

This lacklustre performance is making me cry.

Just a push-pineapple-Hawaiian-shirt-less lie...

...What happened to Black Lace, did one of them die? 

...Yes...

Cactus Flower

I miss you already,

‘Tissues scattered as snow’,

I never gave it time,

You, I don’t know.

But cohesion had glued,

For me, a sense of sync,

Now I’m licking my wounds,

Drowning in drink.

The bubble was kiltered

And I had to brake hard,

This had to be halted;

Forecast a red card.

Call it intuition, 

And it’s doomed to be,

But I felt it was different,

And now the fool is me.

For I sever its bloom,

And it never makes scent,

How I can destroy,

A caution, intent.

I can’t play the games,

That they seem to master,

I let it flow natural,

Now, alone, I neck castor.

And petals they scatter,

Detached from their centre,

I pick up my heart;

As Charcoal as Pinter,

And repeat to fade,

This romantic ideal,

My bluffers stance folds.

To the wind, you deal!

And I miss you already.

But I never give it chance,

I unravel the blue prints.

And don't start the dance.

Air

At least there’s some silence

Trapped in this cell of sound

My loudness excited

Outside it’s more ground

When placed to the mic

And high on caffeine

I remove myself from her

Trying not to be mean

For the boom and the bigness

Is just for the show

But looking at her now

Overbearing must go

This sense of approval

Is evident to all

Proving so much

After gargantuan fall

One day I shall mellow

With the birds and I’ll say

Not everyone can like you

It doesn’t work that way

But first I must start

To find out where I am

To demonstrate some grace

More natural, the plan

So take her off air

And give us the space

I like the quiet sometimes

Get me out of this place

4 4 4 4

Jeremy Kyle

Syrupy Lyle

Smuggery phial

Resolute dial

Underdog trial

Fornicate file

Jeremy Heil

Premium smile

Judging with bile

Trusted and wile

Totally vile

Jeremy Kyle

Poor little fat girl

A while back I began communicating with a manboy; this was prior to my departure into the 'depression-within-a-depression' in the ultimate depressive destination of Estonia. Having put on a bit of weight whilst there, I informed him - via phone - of my additional stack that was returning with me, to which he responded "I don't normally date fatties, but you're funny so I'll make allowances".

Being mostly human, I have emotions. One of those is anger. You may be familiar with anger. I rarely get angry, but when I do, you'll know. You'll know, and you'll cry.

This week I've been annoyed with a shop window in my current neighborhood. The shop window in question is that of slutty emporium 'Anne Summers'. Whether it be nipple clamps or a packet of penis pasta - they've got it all, the dirty bastards. Before you start thinking I'm some sort of prude, I'm not, I'm as liberal as Paddy Ashdown, with his pants down, going down town. I'm well dirty, me.

So, returning to the offending item in the shop window...on Day 1 whilst idly passing I became aware of a mannequin. Come Day 2 I actually stopped and mouthed disapprovingly 'fuck off' in disbelief at what I was witnessing. In reality I said it quite loudly, so others could be party to my horror at the site before me (but I was likely perceived to be a mad woman shouting 'fuck off' at a pair of knickers in a window). Come Day 3, I thought I would make my complaint heard to the workers in the shop.

Following a power lunch of roll mop herrings, I decided to march towards the shop knowing full well my breath was going to be as offensive as their window display. They were going to take the stench of my metaphorical and literal bile.

Talking to the assistant, whilst the manager eyed my rattled assertion with suspicion, I demanded she take the tape measure from around her neck and come with me to the window where I then instructed her to measure the waist of the curvaceous mannequin on display. I was angry, she obeyed.

20 inches.

To put this in perspective, I am currently a size 14, within a healthy range for my BMI and my THIGH measures 25".

To put this further into perspective, here is a model who recently came under scrutiny for her 20" waist, and her (here we go again...) insistence that she eats junk food three times-a-day and scoffs herself senseless with chocolate. She just has that kind of metabolism. You know, that infamous vapourising metabolism.

She likely has a chronic case of worms, undetected except for her incessant bottom scratching. 

So back to my one woman protest. Having informed the shop assistant I would be speaking to their customer services department about this unrealistic window freak, she attempted to placate me with her reassurance that all the other models in the shop were of average size. Having eyes, I was aware of this, but what she chose to disregard is the developing sexuality of the already insecure young girls who pass by the window, and who - perhaps - fantastise about realising their dreamy fornications via a pair of satin turquoise panties atop a waist of miniscule proportions. She could be that girl, in those knickers, being desired because of that 'ultimate' feminine shape. If only she stopped eating, or made herself sick...

Eating disorders are responsible for more loss of life than any other psychological illness. The increase of these deaths certainly correlates with the increasing celebration of perfection of the rich and famous as we are continuously and increasingly distracted from what is really important.

So, stop it, Summers! Stop being aesthetically deceptive to shift your filthy slag pants, you immoral bunch of whores. I don't subscribe to the magazines that make me feel shit, so I certainly don't want this   load of falsified literal arse forced in my face.

If I don't get that mannequin removed by the end of the month, I'm going to eat more cake than is recommended to sedate the pain of feeling aesthetically worthless.

It's a Catch 22.

Red Yellow

Wet sang naive Yellow,
But when it comes to you,
I think of skin, sallow,
And the damage you do.
The Race has begun,
Now, where is the nurse?
At night he hydrates,
The rouge taking purse.

Your life is a mess,
But you have an idea.
I can't see this car crash;
And the premature pyre.
You say things are good;
Midnight guffaws,
But she doesn't care either,
Her judgement is poor.

Awash with faux glee,
As you egg lover on,
Cue denial-in-duality,
A duo lost; gone.
For one who loves you,
In her own special way,
You grab on tight, too,
It's acceptable this fray?

When those ravaged bags,
Betray the gifted scriber,
A liver transplant,
Best have a buyer.
For when I see this,
I shake my head in pity,
For one with your skills,
And nothing in kitty.

You steal and you lie,
All be it in good rib,
But I'm tired my friend,
Of this permanent glib.
What are you to do?
The future pretends,
It looks toxic for you.
We know how this ends.

If I had the strength,
To fight for your corner,
I'd drag it forcehenth,
Frogmarch the former.
So wake up young Bear,
What are you to do?
When tox is blackened,
Repairable too?

You're lazy and lost,
But aware of the pain,
My eyes they are bleeding,
Emotion no-feign.
So look in the mirror:
The eyes have no killer,
You're forgetting the future,
Now magenta's the filler.

Crab Apple

The de ja vu of one just like you,

Makes me feel like a dunce; Investment undo!

Repeat my fall, as you point to a future,

In stroking me gently, I let in your nurture.

The mistake I have made again and again,

Never hardens against this ardour of feign.

And then the calls stop; sharp cleavered sever,

Nudging you gently, but left on a tether.

You look for a muse and one to bleed dry,

But the poet is void; in a mortal high.

It trumps up it’s being; is pleased with itself,

Your chaos, eternal, teeters on shelf.

And now I am scorned, there’s nothing worse.

Get out of my head; extol with the verse.

Will I learn of the centric; the shells on the rock?

In opening too soon, I’m left on the dock.

So I’ll be as honest, as I always am,

And declare that these tricks are truly a sham.

I can’t be prey to this convenient affection,

You won’t find me playing pyrite persuasion.

Back from the USSR

Imagine knowing that your forthcoming year was going to be hellish. No surprises; it's there laid out for you to see. An over-hanging sense of dread that creeps into your mind when you're undistracted. Constant almost. Like a mayoral chain fastened from leaded shit; paraded around in a paranoid state.

I knew 2012 was going to be possibly my most difficult year yet since it's incarnation. For legal reasons, yes legal reasons, I am unable to talk about things that happened to me, and then subsequently things that were done to me out of my control. All this occurred during November, since then life has been a collection of uncertainties with my usual focus being completely blurred. It's horrid. I can't see.

...But in the meantime, we battle on, roll with the punches, try to survive, (move to Estonia, move back from Estonia)...take every day as it comes and try to ascertain some form of control when everything - in your reality - is chaos. You feel the world is conspiring against you, and your spine folds with the weight of the heaviest breath.

This year will be hell. So rack up the cheesecake and fuck me senseless.

TBC.

Stinker

The stench of your feet makes me gag as I enter.
The food in your beard, I think it's polenta.
I've never met a man as bogan as you.
You're wearing my socks, and inside, I spew.
And the whiff when I wake is burning my brain,
It flattens my Monday like the Chernobyl rain.
I know my board and beverage is free for the taking,
But this noxious contempt makes me question my faking.
For I'm not you mother, and I don't wipe your arse,
And I'm not your lover, the respect would be sparse.
So get in the shower and scrub yourself with brillo,
Or soon you will wake, your face pushed in pillow.
And please wash away the grime of discontent,
Because I'm giving up pity this Easter for lent.

Spaniel

Like a faithful mutt you follow, sniffing out your fun time treats.
For an impish romantic such as you; galavanting, reciting Keats.
And though your voice is megaphone, aloud and forthright in key,
Just one counter-fact delivered, is enough to sway you to me.

And when my bubble burst, you were there right by my side,
And though your stumps don't hurry, you managed to keep up with the ride.
Driving in your fucked-four-wheels, we galavant as free,
Endlessly searching for answers; you should know, what-will-be-will-be.

For you have the talent and the voice and the charm enough for many,
And you're generosity to the lame, would extract the very last penny.
So regardless of your slight, no matter of the sneak,
You're bigger than the biggest, with an empathy for the weak.

And the bespoke of which you claim, is fabricated to the big.
But those who appreciate Dan-kinetics, don't really give a frig.
For you are loved by many, all sizes and all sorts.
And you're always guaranteed a laugh when Manicolo is in court.

Beloved friend, this is belated, the yesteryear is past..
But I know the loyalty to each other, is always meant to last.
And though I try to silence the thunder that never heeds,
You'll always be my favourite, my ever faithful bead.