A BIGAMIST BASTARD ABUSER

 

My father was a British soldier

Hiding in Belfast away from

The Kray twins, a conman

Working for shady people

 

He became a top I.R.A. man

Done time in the Crumlin Rd

Jail is more like a dungeon

I visited in my mother's hand

 

He couldn’t look me in the eye

Don’t get me wrong I loved him

But truth be told he was a cunt

We hardly ever spoke, a bastard

 

Literally, he didn’t know what

The truth was poetry was a word

He never uttered, skipped bail

To run guns across the border

 

He never knew he ran guns

From hackballscross Patrick

Kavanaghs just a stone's throw

From Mucker, guns and poetry

was a no-go-area-no-man’s land

 

Everyone knew him as big Jim

Sean fox Irvine john or joseph

I don’t even know my real name

I punced the hardman to the ground

and ran away to London

 

My bro’s and sister said he abused them

I have no proof of that do I believe

The word of alcoholics did he ever

Touch me as I lost memory during

Stroke I know he was a bigamist

 

Thirty-one years married to my

Mother knowing he had another

Family, the policeman took off

His hat and said your daughters

 

Have been searching for years

He left the woman to die of

The cancer went off to fight in

another war

 60-90 dead-tango with Taliban 

Conflict and harmony

Waiting around for something to happen, Covid

2021, Taliban Afghanistan 60-90 dead. Everything

Was turned upside down, I live in negativity. Do

I bury my head in afghan sand. I live in positivity

The able-bodied world doesn’t know the dark-

Ness behind my eyes no-minds-eye. Aphantasia.

 

The grains of sand bottleneck  Taliban,

afghan, those poor Refugee’s knee-deep 

in sewage and blood. Every which way 

l look, for two hours, comfort sitting 

in the wheelchair to see sun trees 

and grass through glass, a sand glass.

Lou Reed already hit me with a flower, what 

an image. ,.

 My body is thin-skinned almost translucent, 

a negative capability is as good as it gets.

 

 

 STREET-LIFE

( Irish/Brit )

 

A humanitarian crisis

home and abroad-

Capitalism is eating

Us alive. Immigrant

Life is living like

A refugee.

 

THAT WORD

D
The world goes on and on and on

But I’m here and here and here.

A plastic urinal looks up and blooms

Between the wheelchair and the dis-

Abled toilet.

I’ve been reading poets and poems 

and poetry but can’t find a link to 

my home. Poetry is out there in 

the meadows and trees but 

I’m locked-in alone. 

I put a search into Google for poets 

who took a stroke, nothing came up. 

I turned away in my wheelchair to see 

my leg-lifter and my grabber catching 

rays of sunlight on my profile bed so 

I suppose the only link is the sun coming 

in and this pome going out. 

A pome from an un-romantic, un-

academic spineless confessional poet

there, I said it, that word poet but 

I’m just shadow of my former self 

living a stanza i me.

 1.

LEGISLATION

 

When will poetry be-

come like a secular way

Afterall sunshine is free

 THUS SPOKE RAYMOND CARVER

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karl_Wallenda

 

Man is a tight rope walker aerialist supreme

a will to power who falls to death, startled

by a jester, is life just a joke, is god dead?

All this is seen in the eye of Nietzsche, God-

Is dead thus spoke Zarathustra, Superman.

 The breath of Raymond Carver's poem held up

 Karl Wallenda, imagine that wire? 

This pome moves through time it made me 

gasp for breathing in 2021.

Carver, Nietzsche and me are on a time-line 

tight-rope will to power, they take down 

that wire but the pome lives in me.

 

Carvers’ poem thus spoke in me writ 

in a gay science 200 years ago.

  

REINCARNATED MEMORY 

Yet why not say what happened

                                             Robert Lowell

 

Living in this shell is a suffering 

fucking- hell. The body without 

sensation, stimulation, no-hard-on 

headron collider, enema big bang.

 

The shit won't hit my fan, no motion, 

memory bowel motion. I know my 

family and friends but have no holo-

gram recollection, no memorial pictures

Of my dead mother or sister, I just 

know that they were, so confusing.

 

Got to get my head out of my ass.

The past and present tense are welded 

as Johnny Rotten said, no future, no future 

for me, everything is a locked-in-sin-drome 

that I cannot escape from,I want to be free  

but find only me.

 

Freedom of choice is dead and gone Devo-

lution, I was once a welder welding, the red-

hot arc of my being is slag, put out

and hammered off. There is a darkness 

inside me, Aphantasia.

Arthur Schopenhauer and Emil Cioran 

I will never be but their philosophy gives 

hope in dis-pair, inner-incarnated memory, 

I haven't a leg to stand on.

THE RED COAT

He sat on the bunk bed now separated

beside the dormer window, looking down

on the streets and alleyways of North

Belfast capturing the frequency of police 

messages on the little black and white 

Marconi tv.

An A.P.B. went out (all points bulletin) for

The lady in red who was carrying a weapon

Under her coat, he knew it was his sisters

Red maxi coat. His father told him to burn

Her coat the bin in the back yard, she was

Arrested and sent to Middletown juvenile

girls prison. 

My father was detained under

the special powers act for nine months.

His mother was locked up in Armagh

women's prison republicanism was

the order of our day.

 My father is dead and my sister who

was wearing the coat, she killed herself.

I think this is the reason why.

That was the coat that carried the gun

That killed the man?

My father went on the run, feels like

we are still running, him in a grave me

in a wheelchair alone on the motorway

ambulance to mus-grave. No more Gun-

running across the border, at Hackballs-

cross County Louth.

Mum and Steph are out there protesting

dissenting death. It might take another

generation of inhumanity in humanity.

 

 A decade decay

Memory is re-

in-creative.