These words will not be my sick complaint,
not my dull litany of low-dulled pains –
neither bellows of my half-swallowed fears,
no sand man damming floods of tears:
Instead I will lift prizes that others miss,
those wasted seconds which they dismiss.
This is my crime spree, my timely dance,
I snatch, a poacher, trapping every chance.
Join me, in theft, even you, the still-fixed,
let us steal time before no time exists.
Please hold the the torch high, it shakes in my grip,
aim the weak beam at that prize which I seek.
See there, in the shadows, a life’s remains,
a lost loot of time – which is mine to gain.
I will take such disposals, all so discarded,
and burn it with verse, now herein, recorded.
These words are the ticks of my observed tongue,
all that remains of our days that have run:
I reduce the weight of my loathsome disease
by stealing the life that others leave.
“The WPC 2016 invites ALL members of the global Parkinson’s disease community to make a video for the WPC 2016 Video Competition about their experiences living with, treating, researching or caring for people with Parkinson’s. Video is a great way to capture and share the power of science, hope, humor, and inspiration. It’s also a great way to encourage discourse about a disease that is often misunderstood.”
My collaboration with David Sangster – we still have yet to meet!
Three thousand children,
wishing to be schooled,
but, still waiting:
in shallow-rooted fields,
those long lost,
arm-locked into fear.
No formal lessons for any of them,
no sit-scraped classmates
for these other faces:
Hunger, forever, their learning:
Juvenile lives marked, tested,
in this foreign field.
Our closest have lives,
To live and enjoy,
In our sick bed-employ:
The mumblers, and frozen.
When ill cannot act.
Family, relatives old,
As PD takes hold:
My prop, my chained-helper,
Engaged, far too cheap:
Her offset disbursement,
Too tired to weep.
When care is passed on,
With my atheist-prayer,
I ask her forgiveness,
For our contract, unfair.
Binner wheeled to departure gates:
An ‘offensive act’, booking those flights.
Hug-locked, brow-racked, scorching fears:
Final-flighted, scare-fared tears.
One-way ticketed, for one of those few,
To meet the Swiss doctor who will ‘do’.
Binner reduced, when failing to hang,
Takes assurance when death’s knell rang.
Last supped-meal, over pressed white cloth:
Closest friends, quit disciplined voice;
Swallowed wine, over swallowed tears,
Binner consumes all their fears.
The clinic, managed, comfortable, slow,
Would allow him, on the last turn, a ‘no’.
Law, even there, needs proof of intent,
Questioning to reckon if death is meant.
Our last lain bed is not often chosen,
Its use not usually the thing be-known.
Binner to Debbie, in planned dub-voice,
Clarity is this, one last act, his choice.
Gone from the clinic, pushed solid-boxed,
Remnants of his self, rolled coroner-locked.
What we leave behind never remains,
What we seek to leave is minimal pain.
Difficulty in death is not for the dying;
That awkward state is for those left crying.
Should we leave wakes of tear-run floods,
For those we lived with, by spilling our blood?
Bravery is found in the judgement of others,
Strained heart broke, by his out-living mother.
Autumn pulls Binner down with its fall,
He pre-supposed well, cheating winter’s cruel call.
How to Die: Simon’s Choice: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b070jm26 via @bbciplayer
— Rowan Deacon (@RowanDeacon) February 13, 2016