POETRY LIKE SUNSHINE IS FREE

FOR GLENN

Accidentally 

on purpose, morphogenetic

poetry

Look like my son

that's how much weight I lost-

three generations.

Like my father

Zarathustra coming down from

the black hills.

GOOGLE DOC

Words spew from my pen or pressurise my google doc. I woke with new pathways to

the brain like a new path to the waterfall.

Felt great to be In Raymond Carvers

Shadow, at one with the written word.

As if Lao Tzu were with me on an effortless effort, wabi-sabi is everywhere in my imperfection flow, the art of doing nothing. Locked in the backwards law (When you give up you float) Alan watts the man, as if these words were in control again.

Twenty years in hell-cell but I would not change a thing. I have been very lucky

I lived three lives and ended up what

I love to do creative writing, give to get.

having no regret, I wish Basho we're here

to feel this. This is how he must have felt elated moon gazing, awake.

At long last twenty years, blackhole poetry, This feels like the start of something new

A creative writing tutor again. Who has come out of the dark?

Thinking what would Carver do

To fit it in a form he would leave

It well alone to carve its own way

In stone that's just how it flowed.

.

 

HUMAN FUCKER

I wonder what my

father would make

of me now. I wrote

my first words the day

he died sitting on the hard chair by his

open coffin, the candles flickering flames

The bruise on his face showed how he fell

and died.

The kids found him, thought him a drunk.

My first poem published was called

Bastard life about him left on a door-

step, she ran to some unknown freedom.

I hated him from day one I think he hated

me, said I was too sensitive needed

a good kick. That sensitivity created

this Poem, seven books of poetry.

Poetry wasn't his thing he was 

A hardman from Ardoyne. Asked

Me once to prime a bomb, a member.

Of the I.R.A. I looked him up and down

Disgusted walked away, wish I was brave

Enough to save peoples lives, I'm sorry.

This poem goes out to you my English

Brothers, fathers sons of narrow waters.

The irony of it all is he was once a British

Soldier, he fought with the bullet, I pen.

He's buried now on black hills in a plot-

Less grave that’s the way he lived, died.

He was a liar, a deep secretive man

I am an honest confessional poet doing

The best I can to make the fucker human.

 Lion's mane creates

Neurons firing patterns

Of hope, a new path.

My wounds are weeping

Tissues of blood, this is-

My suffering mine alone

MEN ARE LOW LIFE SCUM

I KNOW, I WAS ONE

I dreamed of a girl named I-D-E-A

girl from another shore, raped

Pillaged and torn asunder. I want

To give her a voice, let her know 

That girl's aren’t pieces of meat

she’s hurting. I don’t why I picked

this girl my beacon of inhumanity.

She’s just a woman, not a plaything

to feed your cash flow, the pimp-

le will burst and your pus will seep

like a corrosive acid corroding

your world. 

Your a sick sad individual, 

politicians are letting 

this modern slavery 

take place. They are 

Doing their dirty work.

And you still vote, this is a bill of

Humanity to save women’s rights.

You are letting yourself be played.

Why are you fueling this fire?

Have a bit of respect for daughters.

These males are walking all over

You, stand up for your rights.

They are wrapping you around

Their little finger a true phallic

Symbol. These men they are

Animals you know who they are.

She might be a fictional girl but

She touched my heart she woke

Me up at four am, morpho-genetic

Poetry, the sense of another be-

Ing being there, I felt her pain.

Girl I am here for you, wipe these

Male predators of you know who they

Are cut them down to little people

And please don’t vote how are 

These men slipping through Iet

The wind of humanity chime.

let them in and you can't get them out.

 I have been lost for words, amazed at what Lion's mane genius capsules have done for my memory. I woke at 4am and wrote this saw past my aphantasia, no mind's eye.

for 20 years i have been writing blackhole

Poetry, finding hope in hopeless hope.

I wrote this story from a different angle

Another culture. Wouldn’t it be magic if

this were a cure for aphantasia writer's block?

                      Overwhelmed.

 

 

WHISPERING-WIND-CHIMES

 

I-d-e-a, stood by the kitchen window

Her corrugated shantytown. Her two rape

Victim children were never told who their

dad was. They were safe at school, that’s all

that mattered the rain rattled off the roof like

a drum, the shower of rain was over in

seconds.

 

She took her hooded coat in case. The front

door wind chime blew open. Just when she

thought she was free to buy that nice bright

trad design dress she walked by every day on

the way to the market and dreamed of

wearing that dress and the music pumped

through her head, she danced to the Fela-

Kuti beat.

 

In walked the brute and killed that dream, he

walked through like the cheap pimp he was

with his gold imitation lions head cane

mumbling his negative bullshit, he pushed

prodded her like an animal. When you gonna

put them two bitches on the street, blood

they 13 already, he said.

 

How much your skinny ass make last night

come on me ain't got all day spoken in broken

African English brogue. He prodded her across

the kitchen table, all she could think of was

yet another mouth to feed.

 

There was wind-chimes everywhere at the fridge

door the front door the windows. Bright

charms of happiness from clamshells, the

wind blew through them whispering in her

ear, one day you’ll kill that that bastard she

stuttered, his evil vice was making her stutter.

 

She took out a wad of bills from in her bra

and he snatched it out of her hand

and took the ten dollars she saved for

the dress in her right tit, he tweaked her

nipple and grinded a sick broken tooth grin.

 

Began to unfold the note’s and count them,

this for your rent he pocketed a wad and this

is for your ass he tossed two dollars into the

air. It’s my time of the month she said, bit of

blood never hurt said he mmmmmmmmmm.

 

He lifted her drab dress with the cane

blood oozed down her leg mm he uttered

and got hard. Done what he had to do

clattering the wind chime when he came

above his head that whispered in her head.

I’ll kill that bastard one day.

 

She hoisted up her knickers took her measly

Two dollars only enough for potato and bone

soup she walked after she closed the gate

and watched his sad un-pimp like gait

swing the lion's mane across the dirt road.

 

A car came suddenly roared by like a lions

roar and tossed his sad body into the air

floating like the two dollars floating, she

relished the moment. He lay crippled on 

the dusty road. Through his blood curdling 

utterance. She leaned down looked

around and at his broken body, there was no

one took the cane and battered his head to

a pulp with the lion's mane wiped it clean of

cum and blood on her dress took all his

money strolled off yelling help hit and run

Swinging the mane cane.

 

Strolled off to get her kids from school

and jumped a bus to the city, she watched 

the township go by. She held her children.

My father held me up she said called me

I-D-E-A meaning Free. She held up IDEA 1.

and IDEA 2.  All 3 Was on their way to bright

whispering words that chimed.

 A SUPER DUPER BONFIRE

Lou Read, dead Rab King my best friend

Dead, I am getting closer to that magic

Moment, I hope  get close to record that 

magic moment. Strange

 

How just years ago we were raging,

Against the dying of the light, now

embracing it through Alan Watts, Lou 

Read, other Poets of philosophy 

and Schopenhauer’s Pessimistic 

optimisim. Was it religion?

 

That held it back, there’s something 

happening in consciousness philosophy.

Are we getting closer to a truth? I think

Religion has a lot to answer for, I’m not

Being blasphemous being honest empty.

 

Not empty in a negative sense no holo-

Gram of being within, shell like but this

is a blemished acceptance. Memory is

a re-in-care-nation, we are beyond

a nationalistic revenge of hatred but

is Northern Ireland ready to step up

 

To the plate of peace. You have to give

Peace to get peace are we ready for

A super duper bonfire to warm all creeds.

I don’t think so, please prove me wrong?

RAB KING

 

 

 

 MAGIC AND LOSS

 

Rab, I don’t remember but

Our aim was true, we were

Litter picker-uppers who

Never picked rubbish up

To be registered by C.B.C.

 

By the council. We stole

Them from bin-sheds, we

Drank tea-smoked rollies 

listened to Lou Reed 

and walked on his

Wild side staying up for

Days bouncing off the walls

of anti-depression. We

were high as a kite, If you

slept you were dead.

 

Dropping Magic mushrooms

in the fields around bluestone.

The cows were like alien’s

Cops were like beings from

Another world we laughed

At them and they couldn't do

a thing we didn’t dry them

ate them on the go with

thunderbird wine or a can.

 

King taught me how to be me

He was like my older brother.

I miss you Rab but you’re in here

In syndrome never forgotten.

 

Last time I saw the King was at

a blues gig in Belfast Buddy-

Guy, were are still at that gig.

Poems and songs will be writ

of you a man like no other

           

       My brother.

 

I thought that this was gone

But I wrote in five minutes flat.

Kinger you are here with me

Buddy Guy the blues, really true.

---

 [af1]

 

 

UNSPOKEN SYLLABLE'S 

 

 

I woke to the throng of traffic

As if in the traffic jam of all

The world.

 

I held my hand, not in a death

pose but with a palm on my

chest as if greeting the day

in an inverted handshake.

 

The traffic fell silent, Morose

not right wrong It just was, 

locked in motion un-emotion.

 

 Wondering what format should

this be in prose, essay. Then it formed

in this mode a natural default.

 

Pome, was my one and only form but

Why was I writing this form, this was 

my world.

 

This was the new me on lions-mane.

Hi I said to myself and settled input my

Electric blanket on C9 and zoomed

Into my new

Beyond the darkness within darkness

I was no longer in the black-hole poetry.

On the event horizon, another dimension. 

Without the pressures of poetry and prose

A formless form.

 

Pure feeling on a page, a fox looking at

a fox by a fox a past-present.

 

1.       

         

Volcanologist

Virologist, covid-19

‘fucked’ Spike Milligan
 

A LIBERTINE SONG

for Pete and Co

I feel a surge of elation but know 

my limit where can I put it, only 

so far I can go?

 

I want to somersault and punch

the air but I am confined to bed,

feels great when memory seeps

back, a placename lions mane

I have to give it its due,un-due-late.

Haven't felt like this in years.

 

A wave of emotion flows through

me like waves on a pebble beach-

time and space and flow a standing

ovation, just days ago I had a suicide 

pact now life’s on a platter 

a matter of fact.

adrianfox.org

 

Poetry doesn't un-

due-late like it used to-

rise and fall in me.

 

 

LIONS-MANE NEW-WAVE

 

A new wave of memory came over

Me one I hadn’t thought of in years.

The year was nineteen eighty-one

Living in a bedsit In Dublin, Howth

Road N.M.E. SOUNDS were my life.

 

Was never interested in I.R.A. U.D.A.

Johnny Rotten said ‘I thought it was

the U.K.’ I Was never an out and out

punk more new wave.

 

I’m taking lions mane for memory

Not a magic mushroom compound

But it seems to do the trick, magic.

I scoured the charity shops for old

50’s suit and silk lapel dinner jackets

Hand-made winkle picker shoes.

 

I looked like an undertaker, I was my

Own frontman in a high rim trilby hat.

One night a biker stole it at the urinal.

I pissed in a glass gave the glass to him

Glugged it back threw up, I took my hat

Disappeared in the crowd left him in 

the bog kicking himself. This memory 

came out of the blue as a matter of fact.

 

APHANTASIA

 

Reading the master Carver again

He’s like a sculptor of words.

I find it so difficult to find a form

Of happiness. This was the last

aha moment.

 

Two magpies Greenlawn

By a red and yellow door

What more do you want?

 

That’s the last time I saw Sun.

Been in bed for almost a year

Hiding from sun covid 19 so

Thin-skinned almost translucent.

 

Behind these blackout curtains.

Just a few years ago I was dis-

Abled able to drive my wheel-

Chair car now bedsores have

Crippled me, no mind's eye

To link two beings in the sun.

 MY HEART GOES OUT TO YOU

 

Watching lava flow

The tragic beauty of it

pyroclastic

 

Blocked up my portal

Of poetry with brown boxes

Of P.P.E.

 

Hands, face protection

But what of inner me-

capability