Too Much To Declare

But will the Witwells Stay in Beige or Grim Reeper Green?

This may well be the last chance for Lavacious Poetry to rule the world.

I'm in a strange mood, which I can't easily explain, except that it involves thinking about - or avoiding thinking about - the subject of death a lot.

In fact I'm fairly healthy, do 1 to 1 Pilates once a week and a decent amount of walking. I'm seeing my GP on Friday to have a check on various things - but my blood pressure is ok etc etc, so my existential worry is probably for the moment unnessary.

Yet some of the time I'm in deep panic. Besides anything else I'm on my own and I don't want to be. I want my creativity to become positively symphonic. I want to fly.

Help?

I am bored with being awake.

Outside birds are singing. Shut up.

Outside, on the pavements, there are piles of rubbish. There's a refuse collectors strike in Brighton and Hove. Well done, Green city council! Is it a set up?

Inside me, there is a barrage balloon of wind.

(Later, after long session on loo) That's better! Why was I fretting about the rubbish outside?

How about some more sleep...? (It's 4.27)

Do you know the right answer?

I bought this bokk at a scientific bookshop (at the Wellcome Musueum in London) allegedly containing interestung facts and indeed wisdom, but marred by a facetious writing style that is presumbly intended to make the writer seem clever and urbane.

I've read quite enough of the tome after 30 pages. I want to strangle the idiot who wrote it.

As I have never killed anyone in my life - by strangulation or any other method - I am unlikely to carry out my threat. However, just to be on safe side, I am not revealing the name of the book or its author at this time.

Would you rather fight one horse sized duck, or 100 duck sized horses?

The success of your next job application may depend on the answer you give.

Alternatively, send me a large bribe and I will see what I can do.

(By the way, I don't want to be given a horse)

(or 100 ducks, even if they are roasted)

... of my True Love's eyes in the morning.

Except I don't have a True Love.

Several possible (and impossible) False Loves.

Help.

Think only this of me: I'm a coward. Probably. my friend, just like you.

I will explain later. (or is it just the Ginsing talking?)

Apathon is a very dreary, imaginary, seaside town without a beach, clamped inside my head (Seaford without the style, Ortslade without the cathedral?) I have lost all impulses except to promenade the streets of of Apathon and grow cobwebs round my brain. I spend most of my time paddling in glue.

But soon, everything will be different.

Oh yes, I will find the money to sell apathy on the wholesale market. To make grim the only option. To shoot all imagination at dawn. To assassinate smiles. To waltz to dubstep.

To turn old, to wither with dignity,

If only it took that long to get to my mother's, I wouldn't feel I had to visit her every week.

I am feeling dreadful. Below 'normal temperature', so I can't be ill can I?

I'm due to drive to my mother's at 9am tomorrow (40 miles), so I can look after her for the day. My sister is abroad. No regular carer available.

The thought of driving at the moment makes me feel scared and hot. What to do?

A letter with no stamp arrived through the post this morning.

"I regret to inform you that - despite the impression you may have gained from the New Testament and other so-called holy documents - however devout you are, or avoid sinning or sacrifice sheep etc - you are, sooner or later going to die and therefore cease to exist. Yours Peter (Saint)".

I awoke in a sweat, shaking, teeth chattering, smelling of something strange.

Thank God. Nothing had arrived in the post except for an overdue eletricity bill.

What's with the melodrama?

Tork Flood
Gamer O Frort
Alison Rouge
Mug Frapinski Senior
Godzilla Halibut Sin
Kerry Krush
Mervin Mask Thomson
Tum Flat
Ogle B Orang
Val Vortex
Flant Overshaw
Enough Already
Back 2 Sleep

In my dream, I killed the Devil.  But what had been the point?   I could not find His book of Instructions.

Onwards and upwards, to where the vampires and the earwigs live.

•At a co-worker's housewarming party, you spill red wine on their new cream-coloured carpet. You cover the stain with a chair so that nobody notices your mess. What is the likelihood that you would feel that the way you acted was pathetic? Do you feel guilty?

•I stole the above from another website. Am I only telling you this to avoid feeling bad about myself?

•"It's all the fault of Christianity for inventing Guilt in the first place." Discuss.

It's simply not true.

You may have heard rumours about me, and wild, melodramatic claims; shocking way-over-the-top accounts of my sexual exploits and the time I spend flossing my teeth every day. The ridiculous claim that I once played body double to a BBC weatherman who was having an affair with an ex prime minister.

Er?

ALL these rumours are LIES. And if they don't cease being told or posted, I'll put s spell on the lot of you. And a vid on YouTube. Plus, maybe, rob a bank.

Okay,I do a lot to care for my mother (as regular readers will be bored of hearing about) my only sister does more for our mother than I do... beside anything else, there are "female" things that my mother would not like me or any man to do. But I do sit at mum's bedside a lot more than sis does when I am there.

My sister agrees I can do little more than I do - but I get the blame about other things - for there not being unlimited money, in my mum's bank, for example.

This evening, my sister's voice on the phone is so supercharged with resentment that there is little chance to have a sensible, practical conversation (eg, there is more money than she thinks). The more relaxed I am, the more her hatred boils. And then - most times - my little, high powered journalist sister hangs up the phone before I've finished speaking.

Grrrrrr. Sometimes I wish siblings could get divorced.

I'm having a bit of a blogging block at the moment. Not so much nothing to write about as too much, And scary things, particularly death.

Ever since my seventieth birthday back in Febuary, images of the Grim Reaper have been haunting the shadows around me/ 70 is after all "three scores years and ten" the time that God, according to the Old Testament, has given us on this planet - and though, of course, the OT is OTT and seriously OODate as far as medical science is concerned (maybe, in time, all humans will survive in all-bionic paradise - but it could be pretty dull - listening to birds and rolling around in decaying sheep droppings...)

Anyway, I doubt if I'm dieing yet awhile - unless the medical profession is keeping something from me. But who knows?

Meanwhile, I'm still ferociously, uncynically ambitious to write something which will make people laugh and cry and feel warm and touch their souls and, in a small way, enjoy living and be less scared of death.

I don't believe in God. I wish I did. Otherwise, where can I get my courage from?

Wish I felt like spending sixteen hours a day sitting on a tree top singing full throated, non stop, with no bum notes.

I guess I'd have to lose weight first.

Smile like an idiot, sting like a bee.

I have spent a lot of today in bed - reading, yes,but otherwise being a slob. My Credit Card was refused again, but I thinkI have persuaded them (at John Lewis Partnership) it is All Their Fault.

TomorrowI will see my Mother. There I will probably be blamed for all sorts of things, including my long dead Father, and Not Believing in God - and having a Big Belly (which I don't like either)

Today I am very irritable.

My sister phones, early for a Sunday, asking me to buy some Boots Cooling Eye Masks for my mother tomorrow. I make some smallish talk (ie a "how are you?" type question) but she hangs up before I finish. .......

S
ome
thing

g
one
wr
ong wi
th my e
yb
oard

is around fussing about my mum

I intend to be sleeping, but here are three (or is it four?)guys who will help you through the night and all its problems -

Thrush Welby - who will handle your emails, while formulating a new tory policy of how to stand up to UKIP (possibly, Thrush Welby is a woman)

Ormak Crumble Smith - a Russian agent working undercover at the Mattress Centre at Birkenhead - completely off the wall but devastatingly charming. For a price he will send you a silk tie for any conceivable occasion.

Sooty

Floss Barcode a laid back Canadian anagram.

Flint Torpid
Sync Trace
Fingel Cave
Morph Engelby 43rd
Gerry K Rancid
Soup Windsor
Fledge Macro
Dennis Frump Jr
Marshal Yag Wallaby
Desmond "Root" Canal
Ursula "Stalin" Bambi
Throb Crutch
Anon Phil Vanderbilt
Smith Numbers

That's enough. Quite Enough.
For Now.

... about going to bed before midnight. Is there?

That was the worst musical version of Coleridge's Ancient Mariner I have ever sat through. The animatronic scenery was good fun, though, especially the whales and some of the seaweed.