An Urge To Write Part One

Dopey painful I/me had a sudden desire to write! By Stanley Russell Harris The new mad Author & A Poetry Soup honourably mentioned poet 11-2-17 04.22 hours morphine (M) 04.25 hours on Sunday morning and I’m awake. I’m not on Facebook well not yet! As laptop’s switched off to sleep as well. All is peace and quiet from my laptop. Alas, for me it is not! My body is wracked with aches and pains. Legs, arms, trunk, head, they’re all the same. Is it that writing bug in me? Getting revenge on The poor, new mad Author, you see. Well see me now, you cannot. If so, you’d say, ‘I’m in a poor way.’ I dare not move from left to right. It’s even painful, just to write. But lying still as I did, you know. That writing bug would not let me go. It whizzed about in my brain cell, again and again. Like something silly, almost insane. So here’s what it told me to write. I only hope I get that bug’s words right. I had a second four hour dose of my morphine. I hope my writing is clear and can be seen. Did you know on GBs East coast shore? If all the news I heard was right! £50 million was washed up I’m sure! Was as heroin in backpacks, what delight! Of course auntie’s ashes arrived the same day. They do each month, I meant to say. And my auntie sniffs those ashes she do! Then shuts herself in her bedroom true. She’s always chirpy the next day. Then rings her relations across the sea. To say, ‘auntie’s ashes arrived safely. ‘ She does it every month you see. Auntie’s family is well spread out, you know. Afghanistan, and in the Middle East everywhere is so. She was quite upset really to read. Of all those relatives on the East coast shore, indeed! I told auntie, ‘don’t be so daft. It was heroin in those back packs galore. And those packs were waterproof and tied tight. As floated in on the tide, alright.’ Auntie cried was so upset. Went back to her bedroom, no doubt to do! What she does every month, it’s true. Put her auntie’s ashes in small envelopes, neat. The following day I drive auntie you see. To other relatives and old close friends of her aunties! She gives them all a little bit. Of auntie, so they can go home and sniff over it. And as auntie’s aunties are everywhere. All burn what ashes they have spare. Of course, they have to breathe that foul air. But none of them seem to care. N B more following