In a tiny row

                  of terrace houses at

the foot of cave hill.

 
The bone, Havana, 
                 Jamaica street Etna-
Drive-poetry.

 

 

WWW.SEXPISTOLS OFFICAL.COM

 

The pistols were banned in 1977

Now like a mug you can buy a mug

And go on the sex pistols, Facebook.

From no future for me to this.  Where

Did punk go, whatever happened to

Bondage, up yours.  Punk gave

The world the fingers but now

Were just good little boys

Doing what we're told.

 

We need some fucking rock ‘n’ roll

To kick the ass of the establishment.

Dropkick all the capitalists

Or are we just one of them?

 

Anarchy in the UK, my bollocks

But never mind.

 

ONE FOR THE ROAD

PART2.

One of the first flickering of violence I seen 

from the front window in Herbert street

as if on a wide screen TV. in high definition.  

The b-special numbers flashed in the full moon 

light chasing a guy along the street, a trundgen 

caught the back of his legs and brought him down 

into the gutter outside my window. 

 I stood there in my brothers hand me down pyjamas 

and beside me on the wall was a picture of Jesus 

in a crown of thorns with blood running down his face 

lit by a little red cross.  

They kicked him into the gutter calling him a fenian 

bastard, words I didn't understand but this scene 

became the norm for thirty years, they jumped 

on his head in hob-nailed boots and open his 

head like a rotten tomato.

I looked to him and the picture of Jesus 

and threw up all over the lino floor.  My 

mother rushed in and said don't worry  

it will be ok and pulled the curtain before 

removing my pyjamas and mopping up.  

She tucked me into the mattress on the floor 

kissed me and said don't worry ade everything 

will be ok.  The next morning on the way to 

Mulhollands green grocers shop for broken biscuits, 

that smelt of the sea,dulce and earthy potatoes.

I checked the path for blood to make sure I wasn't 

dreaming but the blood was scrubbed clean 

stained in bleach.

 

Aphantastic

 

Aphantastic   

finding yourself in a hole at the bottom of a hole of solitude realizing only writing can save you.

m

MM

  .

Aphantasia is the inability to visualize

 mental images, that is, not being

 able to picture something in one's

 mind. Many people with aphantasia

 are also unable to recall sounds, smells

or sensations of touch. Some also 

report 

prosopagnosia, the inability to

 recognize faces. The phenomenon was

 first described by Francis Galton in 

1880 but has since remained relativ

ely unstudied. 

Interest in the phenomenon renewed after the publication of a study in 2015 conducted by a team led by Professor Adam Zeman of the University of Exeter, which also coined the term aphantasia. Research on the condition is still scarce. The term aphantasia is derived from the Ancient Greek word phantasia (φᾰντᾰσῐ́ᾱ), which translates to 'imagination', and the prefix a- (ᾰ̓-), which means 'without'. Hyperphantasia, where mental imagery is unusually vivid, is the opposite to Aphasia.to

Aphasia is a condition that affects your ability to communicate. It can affect your speech, as well as the way you write and understand both spoken and written language.

Aphasia typically occurs suddenly after a stroke or a head injury. 

Ihave all three

Wow just a name lifted my spirit and inspired me to create this blog  

Aphantastic 

APHANTASTIC

It’s Aphantastic to put a name on something the very thing that drove 

me to suicide. For the last eighteen 

years, I have been writing black-

hole poetry, my writing has pulled 

me from the ledge, as John Berryman 

called ‘The blind-brow.’ 

All those years spent in default mode, telling doctors, nurses and psychiatric professionals who had no clue about 

the blackness behind my eyes, unable 

to conjure up images from my mind's eye.

Unable to cling to images of my own 

sons, my childhood and my family. 

It was as if I was a blank shell of a man.  

At least now I’ve got a name, a reason 

for my anxiety.

I have been trying to form from 

a formless mind but I knew I knew 

I was on to something, there was 

a method to my madness. The poems 

were feeding me hope, 

even it was a dark hope. 

I flicked through YouTube as I stay 

away from adverts. I watched a guy 

talking to a professor about how he couldn’t hold the images of his dead mother in his mind and thought he 

was going mad and the professor 

said he had a condition

called Aphantasia.

Wow, just a name lifted my spirit 

and inspired me to create this 

blog of  hope.

 

 

 PADDIES DAY 2022

 

Life is a centra-

Bomb it implodes on 

my inflamed bedsores,.

 

CHO-CHO

I'd love to get wasted

Get out of my head.

Not think disability

And this fucking bed.

For twenty years now

I've been a good little boy 

without a dummy tit or toy.

negative capability

floats my paper boat

verse writ pomes

blog Twitter moat.

 infantile mind no

games to play, the Cho

Cho train is not on my track

I look into the dark

blackhole poetry 

disability is my capability.

I STARE AT THE WORDS 

IN A MAGNIFIED GLARE 

THEY CAPITAL MOVE 

ON THE PAGE LIKE 

THE TRAINS COMING BACK 

THE LIGHT IN THE TUNNEL IS 

ON A WAR FOOTING 

A TANK NOT CALLED THOMAS

A RUSSIAN UK-RAIN U.S.

FAR FROM US.

 

 THRONE OF GAMES

A girl on a rock

Stroking a dragon, Gollum

Beings that are not being

A TAO INTERPRETATION

 

 

Return to the uncarved block, infancy.

My words are easy to understand

It acts without a name, flowing like

Water, following your own nature

Deep, deep, deep to the gateway

Of subtle illumination.  Don’t cling to

Your body’s woes, crippled becomes

Whole.  Egoless ego cultivates end-

Less energy to rise fall and stand

Beyond dark wonder.

 

Nature’s way moves on through dark

Vision, what was will be and what will

Be was, opposites attract.  Gold can’t

Be guarded, fulfill within, wars famine

A great victory is a funeral, the bright road

Seems dark inwreathed smiles, clay is

The word clay is the flesh.

 

Empty words go back to nothing, magnificent

The scenery remains still, drop drops like a stone.

Good words leave no trace in the intangible

Essence, know when to stop, hold your ground.

Empty vessels and blunt weapons fade away.

A violent man does not die a natural death.

Held loss harms nothing, stand by your word

No more sorrow, no self. 

WABI SABI

Imperfection is the language of art

                                        Robert Lowell

 

Brokedown a chip of 

life's glaze, my mother is there 

in the spirit of  tree.

 

Red hue of streetlight 

infiltrates and warms my lonely

Inner glow.

HYBRID OF HUMANITY

 

‘it’s not hard to be civil’

Patty Keogh (my Mum)

 

My breakfast used to go down

Like plastic toast and rubber eggs.

Until Sarah the carer bought me

A poacher, now they go down

Silky smooth. Now the caregivers

Can care without getting egg

on their face.

 

It’s what we all want in the end

Just a little tender touch, 

a hybrid of humanity.

 

The simplicity of life is set

in the embryo, the yolk of ex-

Is-tense.  Life is not hard-boiled

even If it is shell-shocked.

POETIC HUMANITY

 

This isn’t just poetry this is poetic humanity. 

I was watching a lecture by Gabor Mate 

a Hungarian biologist on authenticity.

As I was watching I realized that

Colin Dardis and Lagan press online

Had created my poems of hope.

 

For ten years I was so dark my pomes

Were pulling me under armed with

John Keats magic hand of chance.

I knew the only way out was in, there

Was no hatred in my heart that's why

I survived this stroke. Someone once

Said that a writer lives two or three

Times. So, I dived right in with Pessoa

And Lowell: I am nothing without love,

Imperfection is the art of language.

 

Rainer Maria Rilke’s mantra: the main

Reson is I’m alive. That’s the main reason.

My authenticity was broken. For ten years 

I didn't know what I know now, Aphantasia.

SAMSARA’S VICIOUS WHEEL-

 

Chair, I’m reading repeating

the buddha again.

The stillness of the trees brings

Out the good in me.  The sky is

grey, blue, white it contrasts

the grey, green fence.

 

The branches sway a little.

I’m writing this with my paralyzed

hand like a claw it clings on like

a talon to the branches, my hand

is getting tired I misspelled branches.