I was at a book launch this week for a writer from a writing group I attend - where I feel extremely inadequate and incapable of producing anything close to their standard of work but still I go... Living in hope one day I strike gold. Anyway, the editor of the publishing company hosted the evening and talked of an upcoming open mic night of `I Bequeath' poems in memory of the irish poet Kevin Higgins who died earlier this year. Higgins was a satirical poet and the idea behind this night is that you write your own 'I Bequeath' satirical poem , considering what of your worst assets/ailments would you bequeath and to whom? I thought I would try it. It was quite cathartic. You can be as horrible as you like! It's great! Mines is a little offensive with the tiniest bit of bad language... but it is merely to display the contempt of being back 'in the moment'.
If anyone else decides to try I would love to know your thoughts. Did it feel good to give justice... Or perhaps you would even be willing to share...?
To the teacher who did her best not to do her best — she knows who she is and what I'm talking about:I bequeath you the contents of my collapsed arse after the spiciest of curries.May it be placed directly into her receiving hands, so that she too can know what it is to feel shite. I also bequeath her my stiff aching knees and my sore feet so that when she's hill walking she feels every creak in her bones and every stone beneath her. And as she is a woman of faith, I pray like hell it hurts. To the father of my beautiful son, the man who gave me the world and fuck all to keep it;I bequeath you sleepless nights that last eternity, bags under your eyes big enough to carry your messages , and your very own personalised aftershave - Eau De Shite, that never washes off, so that you smell off the 7000 nappies you missed.In addition to this, I bequeath you my post birth bladder and bowel, so that every time you cough or sneeze you piss yourself. And for added measure, you can mesmerise people by not just talking shite, but having it coming out both ends. To my hairdresser, I bequeath you new fucking specs so that you can see the actual photograph your client holds up and then you can perhaps cut it even remotely like requested, instead of making them look like Mavis from Coronation Street. Mavis. I say. Like Fred from Coronation Street would say — had he seen the haircut.To my old boss who done me wrong. The kind of wrong that had we been in a cowboy film, the fucker would be shot;I bequeath you my underactive thyroid so that your voluptuous figure that you took such pride in, can be even more voluptuous!In other words... You too can be a fat bastard.To my God. Who keeps taking every one I loved away from me, on the promise I will see them again;I bequeath you my soul. Cleanse it. Forgive me my sins. And when the time comes, do with it what you will. But please, keep your promise. And remember, — humidity would cause havoc with my Mavis do.
