On New Year’s Day, 2018

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As the new year dawns, so the wheel of life turns. Some of us are waking up to a feast, others are scrabbling around in the dirt, searching for their next meal, their abdomens distended through prolonged hunger. Some are snuggling down amidst luxurious duvets, in warmth and comfort, others sheltering from the relentless cold, their sodden sleeping bags providing little protection from the ravages of the winter weather.

It is not a crime to have comfort, not should we feel guilty, but please spare a thought for those less fortunate, not just for today, but for always.

Spare a tenner, mister,
Mister spare a tenner,
I ain’t got no home, mister
No food in me tum, mister,
Freezing cold n glum mister,
Mister spare a tenner.

Spare some coppers, Mrs;
Mrs, spare some coppers.
Me kids are starving hungry, Mrs,
Shabby all in rags, Mrs,
Living out of bags, Mrs,
Mrs spare some coppers.

Spare some change, sir
Sir, spare some change.
I just got off the drugs, sir,
Am sleeping on the streets, sir
No money for treats, sir
Sir spare some change.

Spare a kind thought, lady,
Lady spare a thought.
I have to sell my body, lady
Just for my next meal, lady
It’s really no big deal, lady
Lady spare a thought.

Spare us all compassion, people
People spare compassion
Count your tiny blessings, people,
Help those who are broken, people,
Let your hearts be open, people,
People spare compassion.

© Sarah Drury

One of those days…

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I’m having one of those days, today. Where my motivation is there, but my body and mind just won’t cooperate! A million and one things to accomplish, yet the smallest hurdle seems like an insurmountable impossibility.

So I am staying huddled in the warmth, my fleecy P.J.’s caressing my weary flesh and bones, until this hazy cocoon of bewilderment releases me from its clutches and my mind has resembled a modicum of clarity and function.

I find myself like this more frequently, of late. Usually after I’ve experienced a mild, fleeting hypermania. Like I am a spent battery with every drop of charge sucked out by my power-hungry mania.

Depleted

Here I sit,
An empty vessel,
Drained,
Like sodden dregs of coffee,
Moulded into
Human form.
Narcoleptic eyes,
In vacuous, dead expression,
Seeing,
Yet in monochrome,
A flat, insipid
Tableau of abjection.
Waiting for
A catalyst,
Sweet impetus,
To animate
This stagnant soul,
To live, again.

© Sarah Drury 2017

 

 

 

Drug Trolley

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IMAGE: ‘colorful-pills-on-white-background’ http://www.aol.co.uk

When I think of all the time I have spent gazing desperately at the dirty, putrid walls of psychiatric hospitals, it must run into years! I have festered within their aging, flaking, plastered surfaces, my depressed brain rotting like a decomposing apple, rancid to the core. Within these walls I have journeyed to the realms of the heavenly host, and transformed into the blessed mother Mary herself, relishing in the delightful delusions and the grandeur they afford to one normally so mediocre. I have flirted and flitted like a demented, damaged butterfly, clad in nothing but a faux-fur jacket, crimson-stained lips betraying my incorrigible and licentious, ever-escalating mania.

One of the set-in-stone givens was the ritual of the drug trolley. It was there at the exact same time every night. A lighthouse of medicinal salvation, a beacon of neurological anaesthesia. It was a bringer-together of every flavour in the recipe of psychiatric diagnostics.  A psychological, psychiatrical chicken soup for the soul.

This poem was written during a lengthy stay which spanned most of a year. It is still one of my favourites…

 

DRUG TROLLEY 

Hail! Oh righteous vessel,
Bearer of great gifts to
Those with faith in
This Messiah of psychiatry.

Wondrous drugs
Of plenteous magnitude,
Neurological, psychological,
Sumptuous licorice allsorts.

Plastering, sanding, glossing
Over crumbling foundations,
Psychological invalidity,
Circuitry overload.

Come now,
Swallow those meds,
They’ll send away the voices,
Ease away the pain.

You know you have to cooperate,
For we have needles
Longer than your arm,
Must have complete submission.

Glazed and dazed,
The damaged and cracked,
Assert the tablet hierarchy,
‘Only two tonight dear?’
‘I take fifty a day, you know?’

The climax,
Blessed consumption of the
sacred pills and holy water,
Modern Deistic ceremony,
After the manner of Sigmund Freud.

After the hoards disperse to
Separate dimensions of time and space,
Time and delusion,
Broken, shattered fragments
of a once-whole mirror,

They praise their holy trinity,
In the name of the
Trolley, Drug and Holy Nurse.
AMEN.

©Sarah Drury