THE WORLD AS WILL, NOT KILLntien

Will was born out of Kantian negatiotn

its vaguness is representation. Scopenhauhers

pessimism was the pursuit of happiness.

Nietzschian will to power, the law of will

and will to power created of two great minds

cametogether as a natural force

o

You can kill all you want but 

don’t blaspheme his bloody name. 

Prod and taig, you are bound by 

this land for god and for ulster. 

I can’t write Cruci-Fiction, against 

my will of Schopenhauer pessimism. 

My solitude is the poets essential-

loneliness, my Nietzschian will to 

power, god is dead we murdered him. 

Who will wash the blood away 

we have to give peace to get peace.

Are we just barbarians on another 

brutal crusade. Lock up the good 

Friday agreement.

Nietzscheism: The philosophy of Nietzsche, emphasizing the will to power as the chief motivating force of both the individual and society

Arthur Schopenhauer (/ˈʃoʊpənhaʊ.ər/;^[18] German: [ˈaʁtʊʁ ˈʃoːpn̩haʊ̯ɐ] (listen); 22 February 1788 – 21 September 1860) was a German philosopher. He is best known for his 1818 work The World as Will and Representation (expanded in 1844), which characterizes the phenomenal world as the product of a blind and insatiable noumenal will.^[19][20] Building on the transcendental idealism of Immanuel Kant, 

 The waves swim eyes to shadow light. 

For John Keats

Die-verted die-vergence 

Took you round and round to fall

Foul of the dead end.

  CRYPT-TO-CHROME-CHIMPANZEE POETRY

 

                Neuroscience says: the right brain is monkey-

Ville. Let me start by saying I am not a scientist

Just a mere poet who is intrigued by Ian Mc-

Gilchrist’s awareness, his divided brain theory.

           

             I took a massive stroke in 2005, my left brain was

Erased so, I live on the right side and its far from

Monkey-ville, how can you explain how I can

Understand the divided brain.

 

I have been writing for years on my sense that

Raymond Carver and Patrick Kavanagh have

Been here with me in the realm of possibility.

Me becoming a poet was accidently on

Purpose. Both these poets and others have

Been transmitting waves of humanity.

 

I believe that D.N.A.is sent to strands of D.N.A. via

Waves of crypt-to-chrome like microwave signals.

 

Ian Mc Gilchrist is probably the only person alive

That will know what I am talking about. Ian I think

The lumps at back and front of brain are trans-

Mitting humanity. The reason why we sense

Another being, being there, waves of humanity

Are linking humans. I believe my brain and Ian is

Right on.

 

Is this plausable? if you go to cryp-to-crome

On you tube and see how one strand of D.N.A.

Communicates with another, a signal of humanity.

 

My life and my poems have been about seeking

Feeling not meaning, we have been searching

For meter rhyme and meaning but the Portuguese

Poet Fernando Pessoa said ‘it is not necessary just

To live but to feel’.

       

 

A FLOW STATE

Browsing poetry archive, I realized 

I’m out on a limb, a paralyzed one.

I don’t even have a voice for my

Verse if that’s what you call it.

I cant find my voice among the verses.

Will you gift to me your voice so I can

Lilt a rhyming song and not have a flat

Hyphenated broken word, without

Rise and fall.

I cant even remember how my words

Worked in you, all ego now is egoless.

I need a little bit of hope, for my words

To pick me up and warble a warbler’s

birdsong, full-throated joy.

Let my words rise in you, to roll

Them of your tongue like going

Into a flow state, non-being

Realm of possibility. 

 

 JUST HUMANITY

I woke at four this morning to

Words washing on my shore,

Once more. My computer said

4am, no word and no internet.

My phone was down to one bar

And it said

5am.

My thumb fumbled predictive text,

beep low batt.

I better hurry up, have I got some-

Thing to say-just humanity two

Words like one, climate-change.

Just humanity beep, beep, beep

POETRY LIKE SUN

SHINE IS FREE LIKE SUNSHINE

FREE-FREE-FREE

 A Poem Inside a Poem

A poem inside 

a poem revealed 

it-self to me showing 

a slant of ages like

an image within

an image.

Coming out of a dark
bi-focal trick in the eye
of concentration to go
deeper and deeper into
grey matter.

Grey Matter

I look around this room and realise 

my muse has exhausted the theme 

of light and dark but the shadows 

still fornicate. I’ve used the bed-rail, 

the wheelchair and the stand-by 

beacons to keep me from drowning 

in dark.

My piss-pot is angled like a shooting-

star blazing my trail of hope. 

My positivity comes from the well

Of treasure, the source that we call 

God. Whether it is or isn’t I think 

the well of human spirit is a 

vessel of magic that keeps 

us whole and I always make 

love with my light in the dark.

Fireweed
for David Craig 

Shaving with virgin steel in the pulse 
tension of hand, the misted condensation 
of age. The blade cries like a sharp tongue 
licking red release.

The residue of my past lies at the bottom 
of the sink, I pull the plug and it falls away 
into the mensural sewers of loss.

I wipe away the mist from my reflected self, 
bloody war, winter landscape. Recycled pulp 
on my face hardening like a second skin.

I must shed and reappear wounded.

DISABLED DIMENSION

DISABLED DIMENSION

Butterfly flutter by 
nature opens up
the door and drifts 
like time itself.

Writ these words twenty 

years ago but I didn't dream

this butterfly it was real space/time.

All my poems spill out of a disabled dimension.

I don't know if this is morphogenetic, sham-

manic muscle memory. I cant dream and

 visualise, no mind's eye my mind so you 

and I will have to take my word.

I find so hard to these moments, its a lot like

 writing and as you know I'm not good at that.

The first 72 hours after the was like a dream-

scape, the mind had my spirit of life. Inside

my body I had no strength, the stoke sucked

 the life out of me . Never in my life was I so

powerless like an infant man shell. This is so

difficult without memory. The mind a spirtus

mundi a power of evolution that took my breath

away I was at four hospitals stroke wards

 Seems they didn't know what to do with me.

people were dying all around me and I thought

I was next. There was nothing in my space

 time and nothing in my mind, a space cadet.

Hurtling through a blackhole event horizon.

Three things happened and put life into my body. I woke in a medical ward

The nurses put me out of the dayroom for Laughing to much

If you didn't laugh you would cry so tragic on the stroke ward.

A room full of broken human beings I didn't know at the time 

my laughter was my of dealing with the trauma my un-

 emotional engineering was inside out, back to front,

I laughed when I should have cried my mind was broken.

The nurses and doctors were there to help you to but 

I thought that they thought I would choke as my vocal cords 

were broke.I find it so hard to write  about those

laughed at war killing even sentimental 

slush my mind was broken so I laughed 

at myself. some days it was like being 

an extra in one flew over the cuckoo's

nest. 

I knew the nurses wanted to laugh to 

one day a guy great artist thought he 

was the president one day mickey-

mouse the next, I miss that broken

craic, 

iI would compare to that Japanese 

term: Wabi sabi broke beauty. I didn't 

mind being put out I always hated day-

time tv I watched nature in all four sea-

sons I thought I would never write again.

there was a tremor in my hands,para-

lyzed without memory. one day by open

window a butterfly fluttered wrote this

Since that day I have been compelled.

that was twenty years ago, and as my 

mind I am still compelled to write this

like it was yesterday

an infant’s, a clean slate but every 

day on tthe stroke ward when all 

the other head injury patients went 

to the day-room to watch TV. 

I went to the end of the corridor 

and watched nature in all seasons. 

My mind was like porridge gruel. 

It felt like I was doing time; then 

I woke up one morning like a blues 

song with a poem in my head, 

and I wrote it down in a school 

kid’s scrawl.

A BLOG OF PICTURES

Cabaret Voltaire - Why Kill Time (When You Can Kill Yourself) (1983) MFEAE