Hell-cell ( black-hole poetry )

for Gerald Dawe

Today I was in agony with constipation

I writhed and writhed on the bed, literally

shit a brick my jailer/caregiver relieved me.

I love Schopenhauers pessimism but

I have owned and groaned my suffering

find hope in blackhole poetry. If it's not

a dead leg then its bedsores on my tailbone.

If it's not that its finding hope in a broken

the mind of memory loss, let's not get into that.

I'm blue in the face and you are bluer too.


Thank you for sticking with me, I almost gave

Up twice that was before the name Aphantasia

 

was uttered, these pome blogs are my mind's eye 

Schopenhauer can stick it where the sun don’t shine.