Days since last poem written and published: 33
Never in my life have I experienced writer’s block this badly. It is actually sickening. When I sit down to write, I feel sick.
Everyone’s getting pissed off with me complaining about being seemingly unable to write. Someone said, “Just fucking do it.”
A week ago, I bought a bunch of daffodils. They had not yet flowered, but they were almost dead; the rejected bunches that the supermarket couldn’t sell. All of these half-dead bunches were thrown in a box, on the floor in the frozen food section. So I took a bunch, because it only cost 10p and yellow flowers make me happy.
I do not own a vase. Nor could I find an appropriate container to hold the flowers in. Whenever R.L sent me yellow flowers, I would empty out my litre Jack Daniels bottle, which holds pennies and other loose change. However, last Tuesday I did not feel like emptying out the Jack Daniels bottle because I did not feel like touching coppers, because there is something about touching lots of coins that makes me feel dirty.
So I put the flowers in my bathroom sink and filled the sink with water. Before I came into possession of the Jack Daniels bottle, whenever R.L sent me yellow flowers I would always keep them in the bathroom sink. But half an hour later, I went back into the bathroom and all the water had drained away. The plug does not close properly because a few months ago, the bracelet that D.R got me from Turkey 8 years ago snapped, and one of the beads got lodged in the sink and thus the plug cannot stop properly. Consequently, I cannot fill my sink with water. I promised myself that the next day I would borrow a jug from someone for the daffodils to live in.
But several days passed, and I still could not bring myself to save the flowers. It is not that I was busy, or out of the house. I was just in bed, 3 metres from the bathroom sink, trying to force myself to write something, anything. 5 days later and the daffodils were still in my sink, propped up, limp, against the bathroom tiles, dying, dying, with the sticker on them saying “REDUCED 10P.” And I had still written nothing.
Since then, I have cut the daffodil stems down and put them in a pint glass which I stole from a bar on Saturday night. They have lots of water and I guess my hope is to resuscitate them. I’ve been waiting patiently for them to flower. But I know that they won’t.
Which kickstarts a whole load of thinking. Mainly about death. Memories. The death of my memories. You (of course, you). Baudelaire. Les Fleurs du mal.
Is this what my life has become? Buying myself dead, yellow flowers? Because no man will ever buy me extravagant bunches of yellow flowers like the ones that you used to send?
The moral of the story: I must invest in a vase.