THERE IS NO OBJECT WITHOUT A SUBJECT 

Christinity,Schopenhauer, Stoics.

There is no Hinterwelt: Beyond

heaven and materialism. There is

slave morality, afterlife.

One being cant philosophize

my suffering away, Day-

break;  Nietzche will to power.

Don't command me your superstition, 

no slave morality here,

there is no narrow door.

No me you,  here there, this that.

Will to power, will live. Life

is a contradiction. Amor-fati.

Compassion to man and animal.

Art allows us out of hell, suffering.

'Imperfection is the language of art'.

Platonic.

 THE OPTIMISTIC PESSAMIST

Woke up one-day disabled un-

able to walk, talk in a wheelchair.

Spent a year in hospital re-

covering from a stroke. 

He watched nature while 

the other patients watched T.V.

A butterfly flew through his mind

and poetically woke him up.

Before that his mind was gruel

he didn't have a clue. He wrote

mindful poetry that was blue

and true, words to make you cry

tears of sorrow, joy.

He nursed himself back to himself,

the nearest he could get, The stroke

left him half-paralyzed, flat on his back.

He lost his long-term memory, no child-

hood, three children, and a wife.

Life in a wheelchair is 2x2 but less

is more than more. These are words

of wonder, words that give me hope.

  BLASPHEMOUS

on adrianfox.org 

Click on the video to hear my voice

Eleven years old, running along to meet

my best friend God, armed with a plastic

Mother of pearl missal. I climbed the steps 

to the holy cross, behind me came the clack, 

clack, clack of gunfire. I hid in bushes just 

feet away. Three people lay dead at his feet, 

he raised his rifle saying: 

 This is for god and Ulster.

Words can't convey just how I felt at that moment

l live with this image and it torments me. I looked

down at the missal up to great doors, threw it away

and ran home crying. I know this is mans doing but

I cant live in a world like that, this is blasphemous.

You call yourself Christian, you should be ashamed.

I have to keep writing it from my mind, each time

it gets clearer the further away, I hope. Like a thorn 

in my side, even a massive stroke didn't bleed it out. 

I live with such hatred and to think we are heading 

that way again, please don't. 

Raw war is over let humanity begin. This is why I write 

pomes of peace, please don't get caught in this cycle.

IMAGINE

There's nothing memorable coming from my being

more memorial, am I closer to death than life?

 Let's face it. People don't like people to talk this way.

But I have to live it. You can bury your head 

I cant, wish I could. I want to write of birds, bees

Bee humble and take it on the chin. Stand tall like

a Johnny Cash song, that's what my father told me.

Son be a good boy and hold your head high, Walk tall 

I found out the hard way, my father never gave me shit.

What a joke I can't stand or walk.

He was a cold steel christ murderer. Is that what

you want of me, a  christ-loving killer. Kill/christ

don't go hand in hand, stop this rhetoric, outdated.

Imagine summer without bonfire marching violence, 

Barbeque sharing instead of hate-filled memories.

A clean slate, that's what I woke with, half a century

wiped off erased, all my writing since 2005, nonsense.

Where is this pome taking me, back to a grave-yard

sense and disability, back where I belong. Back to

the first real poem I ever wrote, Light on stones.

Boulders at your head, back to the start, unborn.