FLAW A TRILOGY FOR LOU READ

 

these few pieces were writ before stroke to show how my words have changed

 A COLD SON OF A BITCH

                                                        ‘yet why not say what happened’

                                                                                          Robert Lowell

John looked from the kitchen window, the sink he stood by was like the interior of a

Well-worn teapot or the inside of his lungs sucking on yet another cigarette.

The street light threw a subtle pastel glow on the still housing estate, the red rusted

Volkswagen beetle stood like a monument to his life, ‘I’ll have to get

stuck in and fix that car tomorrow’.  He dropped a sleeping pill and rinsed it down

with a cold swig of tea and ‘I’ll have to clean this place’ he told himself

climbing the stairs.  He dreamed the usual sixty-year-old dream of young ladies

running naked through summer meadows.  When he woke it was those abstract

images of memory that disturbed him and lingered like a blunt saw through his aching

heart.  It’s a suffering fucking hell he said, throwing cold water over his face

as if extinguishing the image in the mirror and the reality of his bald head and pointed

features.   The stench of his loss lingered with every step he took down those steps

where once walked the wife and mother of his dreams.  He could almost see her

walking down those stairs to meet the day with that Irish strength that pushed the sore

reality to the ground.  

 

He ejected the stale teabags from the teapot he thought I have to go, doctors, today 

and get that disability living allowance form filled in and get a mobility allowance 

and have a new car instead of that almost unrepairable rusted old banger.  

He remembered how the car looked in the nights subtle pastel glow, and 

said god you’re a bastard you and your cold light of morning.

He sat in the doctors waiting room trying to remember good times like his firstborn or 

his wedding day but this annoying ugly kid kept shoving leaflets in his face about cancer 

of the bollox and depression.  Just as he was about to smack the kid up the head 

he heard the broken English voice of the Pakistani doctor call his name on the tannoy like 

a conductor on a bus.  As the doctor filled in a section of the Disability living 

allowance form and wrote some prescriptions for depression angina headaches 

and the general feeling that life is a sick load of balls. John was calling him a black 

bastard in his mind because he asked him to exaggerate his findings and received instead

a lecture on the ethics of medicine.  John was a bigot he didn’t know how to be

anything else, he hated blacks, Pakis, Chinese as well as all those beautiful

women he could not have and especially that bitch that left him after thirty-one years 

and six children.  He walked home through the maze of housing estates with his bag

of pills for every ill but the aching black hole in his heart.  Going past the derelict

houses full of graffiti he remembered the night the policeman called.

The shadow of the black cap was cast off and fell through the hall like the black cloud of

Depression, ‘your daughters have been searching for you’ screeched, crashing with a

families’ laughter.  Those words rang through his mind like the word bastard the winds

of a harsh winter reminding him that life can be a cold son of a bitch.  He passed the

old decrepit beetle without an engine without much hope of ever pumping fluid

through its rotten pipes.  He opened the front door and half expected his wife to pass

him and his children playing music and busying around the house, instead, he was met

by the grey stench of loneliness.  He stood by the sink steadying himself as those

words pounded through his head he washed down paracetamol and an anti-depressant.

His head pounded filled with anxiety he staggered into the living room and threw

himself on the sofa putting his feet up on the coffee table between the carburettor.

And the innards of a TV he was trying to fix.  He then stood up over the hearth and

placed a little blue tablet below his tongue and his heart rate began to fall and he was

able to catch his breath and relax.  He climbed the stairs and threw himself on the

single bed this is my bed I must lie in it he told himself and looked through the ceiling

through the grey sky through the galaxy of stars burning in the darkness of his sight

crumpled up into a little boy.  I’m a loser he told himself remembering but not remembering

an infant left in a basket by a blood-red door, doing time in Crumlin Road jail, the longest detainee in 

Ireland, those nine months were hell, a single droplet of salted tear fell from his hardened Belfast 

exterior he brushed it aside like the murdering bullet from an Armalite rifle, no point crying 

over spilt milk, he lay there and cried himself to sleep.  He woke with the

hope of a thirty-year-old man he debt, he bounded out of bed to tackle the unbeatable

day, ‘you can’t beat a good cry, he told himself throwing water about his worn

features.   He brushed the hair from the nape of his neck to cover his bald patch and

brought it to a point on his forehead.  He sang walking down the stairs a song he sang

to his children when they cried, ‘you don’t have to be a baaa aaby to cry’.

Opening a cupboard in the hall he dragged a filthy pair of overalls from a pile of

clothes on the floor and stepped into them tucked his hair into a tweed cap and lifted

the toolbox.  The morning was a little cool but the sun was coming up strong above

the grey housing estate, ‘this is going to be a good day, he thought sucking in the

almost fresh air.  Opening the passenger door of the car creaking like a great sigh

reaching in he delved between unsecured seating busted wings and an exhaust

hauling a jack from the debris.  He took the cross-shaped wheel brace and placed it on

one of the four nuts, before taking hold he stooped and spat on his hands taking hold

he gripped the brace and turned with all his might and tried to budge the nut as if it

was his last task on earth?  He cursed the car and gave it everything he had, all a sixty

year-old worn heart could muster.  A heart like a prune without syrup dried and left in

the searing desert of hurt too long,’ ya red bastard, ya German fucker, ya useless heap

of shit, he mumbled as the sweat broke on his brow.  He rested awhile leaning

against his dream and took a cigarette from his top pocket lit and sucked, he licked the 

beads of sweat that fell across his lips he ran his tongue across his lips once more they

were cold and grey he licked once more unsure and tasted death.

On the morning of his funeral, a letter drifted through the letterbox, one of his pal-

bearing four sons opened it and it read, we are pleased to inform you that you have

been awarded Motability.

 BASED ON JOSEPH BRODSKY'S ELEGY FOR JOHN DONNE

ELEGY FOR RAYMOND CARVER 

 

Raymond Carver has sunk in sleep...All things beside 

Are sleeping too: The brass swan paperweight sleeps 

On Hebrew translations, Butts in the ashtray sleep with 

Ash, Chekhov, the lapdog and the wicker chair sleep 

In the intricate weave of willow-like the exiled words of 

Joseph Brodsky. Tess sleeps in a bed of hummingbirds 

The photographs and the pins that hold them sleep in 

The cork they penetrate. His unpublished words sleep 

Piled high in the bunks of America. Belfast and Sligo 

Sleep even the doctor sleeps in a handshake of blue 

Sea and sails. 

 I'M-POET-TENT

Living without stimulation

hell-cell abomination, urge

has no drive, how can you

explain Aphantasia: No-

thing behind my eyes,

no-minds-eye.

Darkness within dark-

ness. Even my taste

buds have left me like 

my long-term memory.

It's hard to put this in- 

to words when you

can't even get a hard-

on, life is beyond me.

Camping out in my

tent but this is no

holiday, the wheel-

chair is my sense of

freedom that i cant

sit-in. How can one

explain this to an

able-bodied person

when I can't even

under   -   stand

My     -    self.

 JUMP-SHIP (civil rights for civil wrongs)

1.

It is funny how a friend bought me a copy of the book 

'anam cara which means ‘soul friend in Irish.  

I just wrote ‘Chinese opera’ which tries to capture 

the same essence of light and dark.

CHINESE OPERA

The buddha, the easel, the TV on stand by

And the shapes drifting across my ceiling. 

I give them a voice from the beauty that I’ve seen. 

They shimmer and move casting shadows, on my 

very own Chinese opera.

The light of the moon and this mobile -

Phone is the only illumination

For my backdrop, even the itch on my neck

Creates a movement of life.

The pictures on my wall are the frame by

Frame animation, the flashing light of my 

Zip drive is the dance of a beautiful woman.

Waiting for the dawn to rise and cover my 

theatre in a blanket of light.

2.

Maybe we're on the same journey, I know my journey,

is to paint with words and images of my inner landscape.  

I think I'm flowing in the river of positive simplicity, 

touching on the same banks towards the sea that opens 

in brilliance.  No longer part of the rat race.  

I remember working on an assembly line 

and the supervisor looking over my shoulder,

I thought, felt ‘used’ is the right word for it, 

I'm putting together this vending machine,

and someone else is reaping the profits 

for that moment of thought, I felt like nothing. 

I've never liked the workplace, not because I'm lazy

I just don’t think its right that you do the work 

for a pittance wage and someone else gets the profit. 

 Ive always been an advocate for fair-play civil rights 

for civil wrongs justice and the underdog.   

I think we're caught in the circle of consumerism 

going round and round in the vertigo of hypnotism

Caught in the cycle of capitalism.  Ok they give you 

a few bobs every week to go on holiday or go down 

the pub but you're worth more than that.  

Tell the supervisor to tell the managing director to tell 

the director to tell the owner that you're not taking it any-

more.`Your not a sheep that follows the flock in his queue 

to the clock-in machine.  Don’t forget if you get £300

a week you're worth twice that.  

If your job description states, you get 400 hundred a week.

Then you're worth double that.  Ok, his profits go down, 

but he's the gambler, not you. He's willing to stake his claim, 

the economy needs to get out of this consumerist cycle, and take a 

spin on the crossbar of simplicity. 

People haven’t got time to be themselves, were becoming 

yet another American state fuelled by greed no wonder 

the therapists are on the big money.  Society is screaming 

for help and the politicians get his backhander and a little pat 

on the back because our economy is thriving, on what this 

bullshit.  

Let's jump ship while we can before it's too late.  

It seems we're on the rails to no-where heading 

towards the landslides of derailment.  Its time 

we found that reverse gear before its too late,

think of the next generation.  We are not here 

for long enough to leave them our worldly goods 

so lets give them something that costs nothing, 

the path of simplicity.  

Let's forget about this road of capitalism who 

wins not you because we live in such a negative 

society, the lottery is the poor man's tax reaping 

the rewards, sucking you dry. 

 

Lets get back on track towards respect. Respect 

for the earth the land and the sea respect others 

opinions agree to disagree respect your neighbours 

and don’t get caught  in tribalism and tear down 

the barricades of hate. Someone once said 

never hate your enemy it clouds your judgement.  

 

We desperately are in need of a new gentle light, 

the soul can shelter and reveal its ancient belongings. 

Meaning his spiritual wisdom from the Celtic world.  

Harness it and ride bareback through the fields, 

and gallop through nature in all its beauty.   

Two years ago I took a stroke all I could move 

was my eyes, I had a thing called locked- in-

syndrome I knew what was being said but 

I couldn’t communicate.   This feels like 

my second time around so im not taking it 

for granted, I know how quickly things can change.   

One minute I was reading a book the next 

I was on the floor, then in intensive care. 

I was in the hospital for a year and now I'm in a wheel-

chair.   I don’t care if it changes in the next five minutes, 

all I know is I'm gonna make this world better for my kids.  

Have respect for those you look down on, don’t forget  

Any minute now something will happen.

    sorry grammar all messed up, thought all sorted.

 A priest gets a house a maid a  car, a disabled

man who worked all his life is given a wheel-

chair and pittance told to shoo from society.

WE LIVE IN A LOCK THEM AWAY SOCIETY

I WILL KEEP SAYING THIS UNTIL SOME-

                     THING HAPPENS

BACK TO FRONT

 Rizal - Wikipedia, ang malayang ensiklopedya

https://tl.wikipedia.org/wiki/José_Rizal

‘Whoever does not sometimes give full consent, and a joyous consent, to the dreadfulness of life, can never possess the utterable richness and power of existence’.

                                                                                                                               Rainer Maria Rilke

It’s as if Rainer Maria Rilke and John Keats were alive in these hard times of economic gloom, spinning their web of negative capability.  Holding us in a protective balm against the silly sentimental manufactured culture and our greed of consumerism in a throw-away nonsense society. These men of true conviction are chiseling truth on waves of beautiful headstones rising from the earth, giving us a dark truth of today that will become the podcasts and blogs of tomorrow. These are the days when we must face the ‘waking dream’ and wake to the world of human frailty and stop hiding behind the hem of Christianity.  

I am not out to offend or blaspheme anyone because I know we all need spirituality and a godlike existence but I am enraged at the church and its hypocrisy let’s fill the cathedrals with music art and poetry.  There is something flawed about worshipping a man in a dress floating have around in mobile when there are people struggling to get the mobility of a wheelchair and access to get them to the street corner.  had our fill of golden treasures there is something flawed about worshipping a man in a dress floating 

Let’s bail out Christianity and save it any more sex scandals or holy war embarrassment’s, going against the grain of society, we can’t have the spirituality of today clashing with the spirituality of humanity tomorrow.  I apologize if anyone is offended by these comments but as Tom Waits said in a song ‘get down of the cross’, we need the wood to build an infrastructure that creates a path of access that helps people, were not building them and us judgmental society in a dog eat dog world.

‘It is a flaw in happiness, to see beyond our bourn-it forces us in 

summer skies to mourn, it spoils the singing of the

nightingale’.

                                         John Keats

In 2005 I took a stroke that almost killed me, I spent a year in 

hospital on my back waiting for someone’s help after my

exhausting days in rehab therapy.  I met a very caring girl on the 

internet, after months of yahoo-ing by computer I decided to go to 

the Philippines and meet her, and after speaking to my son I 

decided to find a little happiness after that rough year of waking 

from a stroke/coma on the brink of death, good food and the 

the warmth of a good caring woman was just the ticket I needed.

Playing the journey back and forward in my head arranging my 

friend to take me to the airport and my girl to pick me

up on the other side, I went for it.  I lived with my girl and her 

family and embraced their Philippine lifestyle so

different from ours,

 I never felt there was a difference in language or skin tone after a time I felt they were

family.  I loved their caring attitude and even embraced their Christian way.

Every day I had a massage and walked in between two bamboo poles on the balcony.   I 

loved their caring attitude so much I decided to stay and get married.  

They took me to fort Santiago where Jose Rizal was imprisoned and shot by firing squad 

and also to traditional cabins by the seaside and under a trained therapist’s

care, I was buried waist-deep in therapeutical sands.

After those days of near-death experience, it felt like I was in 

heaven, I took potions and herbal remedies, I swam in natural 

springs thinking one day I would walk, I even tried to embrace 

their Christian ways, any light at the end of any tunnel was a good 

light.  One day we went to a beautiful cathedral, on the way in I 

noticed it was decorated by colorful stations of the cross and 

biblical scenes, I noticed every statue was covered by glass cages

like a gaming machine and you had to put money in to light a 

the candle that dropped like a jackpot, I couldn’t help think

that the church had some sort of monopoly on suffering

And we were paying for the right to grieve.  The mass began and I 

sat there beside my future wife and I asked what was

happening, the huge doors were closed and the poor people and 

beggars were locked outside, shouldn’t it be the other way around I thought, 

shouldn’t all the well-dressed people be out 

and the poor people in, I began to feel that

hypocrisy rise in me, that the church had got it all back to front.

Wasn’t the church formed to help needy people, I felt violated and 

exploited, I wanted to go up in my wheelchair and

tare the robes from the upper-class priest and throw the challis's 

out the door but I sat through the charade.  The doors were opened 

again after communion, I asked the girl and all her family

For their change thinking

, 

I would put on the collection but I asked to leave and was pushed out among the beggars 

and thieves homeless and limbless people.  I took all the money I had notes and all and 

threw it into the air and went home disgusted never again to set foot in these hypocritical 

temples.I told my girl I would never be part of organized religions back to 

frontness, my marriage has now been annulled because British immigration said she 

couldn’t come here to look after me because I am disabled and can’t work to

support the manageress of a company.

All my life I have had to live under this hypocrisy that has raped 

and pillaged this land, I have since been told that I’ll

never walk or talk properly and the paralyzed side of my body has 

got no better, I might only have one hand but I’ve

got my poems and essays and paintings of spiritual energy and I 

feel alive, do you?

José 

BACK TO FRONT ( Jose Rizal the great)

 

José Rizal - Wikipedia, ang malayang ensiklopedya

https://tl.wikipedia.org/wiki/José_Rizal

‘Whoever does not sometimes give full consent, and a joyous 

consent, to the dreadfulness of life, can never possess the utterable 

richness and power of existence’.

                                   Rainer Maria Rilke

It’s as if Rainer Maria Rilke and John Keats were alive in 

these hard times of economic gloom, spinning their web of 

negative capability.  Holding us in a protective balm against the 

silly- sentimental manufactured culture and our greed for 

consumerism, throw-away nonsense society.

These men of true conviction are chiseling truth on waves of 

beautiful headstones rising from the earth, giving us a dark truth 

of today that will become the podcasts and blogs of tomorrow. 

These are the days when we must face the ‘waking dream

 and wake to the world of human frailty and stop 

hiding behind the hypocrite hem of Christianity.  

I am not out to offend or blaspheme anyone because I know we all 

need spirituality and a godlike existence but I am enraged at the 

church and its hypocrisy, let’s fill the cathedrals with music art and 

poetry, we have had enough of people struggling to get the mobility 

of a wheelchair and access to get them to the street corner.  We 

have had our fill of golden treasures of paranoia and hate there is 

something flawed about worshipping a man in a dress floating 

around in a glass mobile when disabled people cant get wheel-

chair access.

Let's bail out Christianity and save it any more sex scandals or holy 

war embarrassment’s, going against the grain of society, we can’t 

have the spirituality of today clashing with the spirituality of 

humanity tomorrow.  I apologize if anyone is offended by these 

comments but as Tom Waits said in a song ‘get down of the cross’, 

we need the wood to build an infrastructure that creates a path of 

access that helps people, were not building them and us 

judgmental society in a dog-eat-dog world.

‘It is a flaw in happiness, to see beyond our bourn-it forces us in 

summer skies to mourn, it spoils the singing of the

nightingale’.

                                         John Keats

In 2005 I took a stroke that almost killed me, I spent a year in 

hospital on my back waiting for someone’s help after my

exhausting days in rehab therapy.  I met a very caring girl on the 

internet, after months of yahoo-ing by computer I decided to go to 

the Philippines and meet her, and after speaking to my son I 

decided to find a little happiness after that rough year of waking 

from a stroke/coma on the brink of death, good food and the 

the warmth of a good caring woman was just the ticket jour thee journey back and forward in my head arranging a friend to take 

me to the airport and my girlfriend 

to pick me up on the other side, I went for it.  

tyle so different from ours, I never felt there was a difference in language or skin tone after a time I felt they were family.  I loved their caring attitude and even embraced their Christian way.

 Every day l walked between two bamboo poles on the balcony.   

I loved their caring attitude so much I decided to stay and get 

married.  They took me to Fort Santiago where Jose Rizal was 

imprisoned and shot by firing squad and also to traditional cabins 

by the seaside and under a trained therapist’s care I was buried 

waist-deep in therapeutical sands.

After those days of near-death experience, it felt like I was in 

heaven, I took potions and herbal remedies, I swam in natural 

springs thinking one day I would walk, I even tried to embrace 

their Christian ways, any light at the end of any tunnel was a good 

light.  One day we went to a beautiful cathedral, on the way in I 

noticed it was decorated by colorful stations of the cross and 

biblical scenes, I noticed every statue was covered by glass cages

like a gaming machine and you had to put money in to light a 

a candle that dropped like a jackpot, I couldn’t help thinking

that the church had some sort of monopoly on suffering

And we were paying for the right to grieve.  

The mass began and I sat there beside my future wife and I asked  

what was happening, the huge doors were closed and the poor 

people and beggars were locked outside, shouldn’t it be the other

way around I thought, shouldn’t all the well-dressed people be out 

and the poor people in, I began to feel that hypocrisy rise in me, 

that the church had got it all back to front.

Wasn’t the church formed to help needy people, I felt violated and 

exploited, I wanted to go up in my wheelchair and

tare the robes from the upper-class priest and throw the challis's

out the door but I sat through the charade.  The doors were opened 

again after communion, I asked the girl and all her family

For their change thinking, I would put on the collection but I asked t

to leave and was pushed out among the beggars and thieves 

homeless and limbless people.  I took all the money I had 

notes and all and threw it into the air and went home

disgusted never again to set foot in these hypocritical temples.

 I Told my girl I would never be part of organized religions back to 

frontness, my marriage has now been annulled

because British immigration said she couldn’t come here to look 

after me because I am disabled and can’t work to

support the manageress of a company.

 

All my life I have had to live under this hypocrisy that has raped 

and pillaged this land, I have since been told that I’ll

never walk or talk properly and the paralyzed side of my body has 

got no better, I might only have one hand but I’ve got my poems 

and essays and paintings of spiritual energy 

and I feel alive, do you?

 23c MELANCHOLY WAY

How can the world know?

This swoon of life/death.

Even the people who care

Don’t understand.  How

Can you step outside your-

Self and let the world see.

Imprisoned in beauty but

Not finding beauty in me.

Searching for the right word

In words and art, the lonely

Streetlight shines on me.

The air I breathe is tainted.

The sentiment of love is deep

Deep within my heart, lost in

Here out at sea.  All I can do

Is write and write this out of me.

If poetry is felt by the senses

Then what’s the sense in me.

My truth is inside my beauty

I must go round and round

Within my living and hope

That I hold that thing

Called love in me.