These images are seared into my mind 

These images are etched into my mind, 

branded like livestock aphant-trauma, 

aphasia, paralysed my down right side. 

This is my dogs honest truth. Even I cant 

understand, I call these pomements moment-

us moments No past

cling on to memory spoke from a broken 

Emind. 

I feel so alone,lost they cant handle my 

negative capability. 

My filthy realism, how can you come to 

terms when you have no long-term memory

There is nothing else in my mind like 

odes they are a song of myself. I wanted 

to write a romantic poem like Keats,Milton, 

but my paradise is lost. The morphic vibration 

of life is felt through works of art like a sham-

manic fox foot fall, fingerprint. I feel poe-art

without memory; poe-art is undermy skin. 

It seems I have lived two lives, one with 

and one without.

A Fox Looking at a fox by A Fox means 

so much to me; I like those flow states.

A Fox Thought and the Dreamscape of 

the fox thought.

I can't put my finger footfall on nature's 

memory but feel adrift. Like the diving bell 

and the butterfly, fluttering in a backward law.

A reverse effort floating up to the top, locked-

in a default syndrome.

When I first took the massive stroke, j was 

drifting between life and death in a flimsy 

hologram, a grey state. Beside my hospital

bed was an exit door. 

Above it was a little green man. I was tripping 

like I had never tripped. The drugs to keep me 

live were making me hallucinate, and my balance 

was gone; I couldn't even put my foot on the floor, 

it was like an ocean. My compass point of fantasy 

and reality, I had no fixed issue and couldn't tell the difference.

Everything on the ward was moving nurses on off rota; patients

time/space meant nothing to me. The little Greenman I focused 

where I got this strength of mind is beyond me because 

the stroke erased my hard drive. There was nothing in my mind

but I told myself if I had seen the Greenman, then I was in reality

and not fantasy hallucinating. I realised that the consultants

whispered, not knowing where I fit in life or death.

Self-determination gives you strength if you just believe in you

It felt great knowing that I was in control of my stroke recovery.

The nurse opened the exit door, and I tasted greenery. My ashen grey

flimsy hologram felt the rush of life. The breath of fresh air was like the stroke boost that woke me bolt upright from death's door. Declared dead for seconds,  I saw my reflection in my son's eye

like a zoom-me.

Summer entered me like a rebirth; the nurses, and doctors saw me

in a different light. Paddy, the little green man, showed me Ashfalt

which led to the bluestone road and Lylo cemetery, where my mother

and sister are soiled, waiting for me. This was the first day of my

blemished acceptance; I knew where I was at the back of the hospital. A Google map opened in my mind like a sat-nav. From that

moment, no matter what three hospitals I went to, the compass point

was in my mind. I no longer felt lost and alone. I felt good in myself, knowing my mind had figured this out; there was hope in me. Paddy showed me the road; self-determination is a beautiful thing. If only

we believed in ourselves.  I was on the road to recovery, not hell.

OPTIMYSTIC N.I.HILIST

POETRY LIKE SUNSHINE IS FREE

     BEING ALONE AWAY FROM HERD

MENTALITY

embrace solitude

 

 

 

COPY PASTE 

AND HOPE

 

The internet was down

 for a day. I realized my broken mind had no Cling on to memory, lost without Photo- graphs and Internet. 

                                                                                        PROPER PIC

There Was nothing on my mind, blank.

 I always knew memory was mor-photo-

genetic, the net gave me stimulation. I tried 

to conjure up something in my mind but no 

remembrance.

 

I cant even think up a con-no-clue-sion, 

wordplay is my depth. I want to say more 

and roll poetic of my tongue but it’s like 

when I woke from stroke.

 

I seen the word in my mind but nothing 

came out. I am like internet my network 

is down. I can only write of the moment 

I am in no past and future intense.

 

I tried to save this Word document

But just like me, there is nothing on

Its mind, copy-paste and hope.

 

Am I just a blog on the write

Hemisphere, waiting to be put

In the virtual-reality wastepaper bin..

  PESSIMYSTIC

Will, synchronicity

Butterfly flutter by

Nature opens up

the door and drifts

like time itself.

Seen green smelt

Greenery, the road

Mum/sis soiled

Greif and joy was

in my heart.

Google map was

in my head, dead

steered me back

to life to Lylo.

MY WILL TO POWER

' for I love thee eternity’

Nietzsche

I seen all this today be-

cause I seen all that

tomorrow.

MORPHOTO-

                      GENETIC-
                                         SHAMANIC-
                                                             BEING

These are the words of a broken human being.

 Being broken how?  Is so hard to put my finger

On that pulse: Stroke-long-term memory loss-

Aphasia-aphantasia, a veil of black behind eyes.

                        

Marguerite Dumas said of her studies on mel-

oncholy when you find yourself in a blackhole

at the bottom of a hole, you realize only writing

can save you, the write hemisphere blog.

 

I haven’t dreamed in twenty years but last night

The snapshot of a fox in a grey multistorey-Car-

park. The fox slept on the soft-top roof of a car

it was daylight colour road signs and bunker grey.

 

Just days ago I watched a shamanic journey he

spoke of your animal symbol, ticking my boxes

Of shamanistic, Pagen, animal skin drum beat

I went on my url and found a poem, pagen poet.

 

I don’t do that new-age mystic shit if I don’t

See touch or feel I don’t believe the stroke

Put me in a confusing default mode. The snap-

shot pierced black fabric of life just a shutter

speed flicker of fox.

 

As close I could almost touch, said hey there

 mister aphantastic fox. Nonchalantly he raised

 his head to fall as if  I wasn't even there was this

 the animal symbol of myself caring not to care?

 or a sham-manistic being of my broken self.

 

I flicked my computer of poe-artry memory as

My human hard drive was wiped clean, I was

amazed how often the fox appeared. There is

Hope after all in my hopeless hope, flicker foxy-

Foxy like the back of my hand, a morphoto

genetic flashed up Johnny the Fox alias Jim

 (father's name) before my eyes. A Fox looking 

at a fox by a fox mantra-shaman. I lived with 

Dad when I saw the fox

I don't remember.

 HYPHEN-ATE ME REPETITIVE REPEAT

Black-

Hole, this is a melancholy study

            Its black and bleak down here.

        No emotional engineering, just

A .dot-wired up al-chem muck

T-OO- GOLD

 

 

 

 

I look inside my black face mask

               To see what is in me, no dream-

       Scape psych a trip, tripped up M-

Ore-mining, how far down can-u

         I’m in a black underearth a black-

 

           Hole, this is a melancholy study

                 Its black and bleak down here.

No emotional engineering, just

               A .dot-wired up al-chem muck

To gold-Neitzschian. He knew  

 

 

 

How to suffer- Will and will to

Power-no x-mas or birth day

Cell-leb its just pure Dubh-bla

Bla-black. I know the world is

Out there I hear them drive-

 

By-shooting. On my per-if-

Eerie is a dis-able room dis-

Abled bed and the curtains

Blacked out allergic to sun-

Light red around the head.

 

A native Irish/English man

with nowhere to go Shop-

pen-Will is my time my-

hour pess-I-mytic hope.

 

 

No green/orange- red/blue shot by

Both sides we were wired up, some

Of will get creedmore-electro- shock

You can kill your sons,music was like

A Kill city-round and round abot city

But we took the mushtoom hit.

 

Cows were alien force we tripped

Nothing the lawonly works dried

out. We were dole hoppers hop-

ping on the mi-cell-ian socal net-

work Fun-guy 2.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HYPH

 

 

To gold-Neitzschian. He knew

 How to suffer- Will and will to

Power-no x-mas or birth day

Cell-leb its just pure Dubh-bla

Bla-black. I know the world is

Out there I hear them drive-

 

By-shooting. On my per-if-

            Eerie is a dis-able room dis-

Abled bed and the curtains

        Blacked out allergic to sun-

   Light red around the head.

 

A native Irish/English man

             with nowhere to go Shop-

pen-Will is my time my-

           hour pess-I-mytic hope.

 

 

No-go black path,  I knew like the back

of my back of my hand ta-too-foxy was ere.

Fuck queen and the pope this was my-

Well- fare state,me and Rab-king we

Walked on the wild side-Lou-Read.

 

No green/orange- red/blue shot by

Both sides we were wired up, some

Of will get creedmore-electro- shock

You can kill your sons, music was like

A Kill city-round and round abot city

But we took the mushrooms hit.

 

Cows were alien force we tripped

Nothing the lawonly works dried

out. We were dole hoppers hop-

ping on the mi-cell-ian socal net-

work Fun-guy 2.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

POE ART IS FREE    PEN-SEE ME

(Poe art like sun-shine is free)

 Why do we need meaning and not feeling

me and me and me? What snobbery cruci-

fiction. Nietzsche -N.I.hilism told us God was

dead; his writing was his inner belief. 

Active optimistic N.I.hilism. This is mine; 

I don't think he went mad. I think he had 

a stroke, had aphasia, and lost all memory 

and no mind's eye.

Marguerite Dumas in her studies

of melancholy.' When you find yourself

in a hole, only writing can save you.

I live in a year moment on a 24-hour

loop. I have a lock-in with no future, no 

past writing a bleak blog. Absurd, my only 

worth is in myself. I have been writing this 

moment pomement.

Camus also had a touch of aphantasia,

unable to grieve his mother, but took that 

as a guilt trip. ? You don't have to join the club. 

I loved his nonchalant way. Aphant helps me 

deal with this trauma and grief.

N.I.hilism has a strange feedback loop

of optimistic niehilism pessimistic hope. 

Will and will to power, art is feeling.

I sat on the fence for thirty years I watched 

hate hate in God's name.We will never get 

over the man-made wall until we are done 

with a manmade religion.We created 

and killed him; revenge and hate live on.

I grew up in this, but I saw peace; my sister

killed herself because of hate revenge.

Just like my art, a feeling of black hope-

lessness it turns my muck to gold in the words 

of an actual human being, Nietzsche, I woke 

up in a verbal line of 1967 gutterance.

A morphic nature memory, Zoetrope in 

a bodhran rhythmic sham-manic beat. 

Drumming up cobblestone streets outside 

loos and B-specials kicking a man into 

the gutters. 

Drenched in blood begets blood lit by

a cruci-fiction. Gutterance insight 

and this manmade religion are seared 

into my mind. 

What is this place with evil fleas, where adults

tell you stories of banshees and death and a man

hangs on a cross drenched in blood? Where is

 humanity in that? The picture of cruci-fiction.

She slept in the same room as that picture

I'm not sure this went down, but take my 

word. I wrote before my stroke broken mind. 

I can't get this image out of my head, but Aphan-

Tasia helps me deal with grief and trauma.

I was six, watching police kick a man into

the gutter, just like the man on the cross, even 

then I knew I couldn't hate like that, barbaric.

In a widescreen high-definition, full-

Moonglow. A two up two down 

warped window view. All from morphic 

nature's memory. There are no visuals in my 

mind, but the hate I saw seared into my mind. 

Mind spinning like vertigo, I threw up on 

the floor, peas lino. The greengrocers smelt 

of the sea, Dolce and the earthy potato, a bag 

of broken biscuits to take away blood memory 

but I lived my truth. 

I checked the gutter to make sure I wasn't 

just dreaming; the blood was bleached white. 

Children should be seen  and not heard, but

one told me what to do, the norm for thirty 

years, locked-in decades, God's name. 

War and blackhole blemished accept-

ance unemotional engineering a warped 

con-cave hill and Napoleon's nose. Feeling 

trying to remember for-Get, you just can't 

beat the truth. 

In the book of Dreaming, a poet is alive.

 Fernando Pessoa wrote:' 'It's not.

Necessary just to live but To feel.'

There are so many great writers with 

a pessimistic optimistic N.I.hilism. 

 

MANGLED OBJECT/SUBJECT

 

On the elevator going up from I.C.U.

where they gave me a stroke boost

declared me dead for seconds. I have

no sense of time/space, so don't take

my word.

 

The piston thrust of life sat me bolt up-

right in the bed. Just a grey ashen dust

of flimsy hologram like a victim of holo--

cast. I saw my reflection in my son's

eye; I looked like a skeleton.

 

My hard drive of forty-five years erased

 of long-term memory, there was nothing on/

in my mind. I thought the nurses were out to

kill me; no concept took me days to tell

the difference between fantasy and reality.

 

 

The drugs they gave me to keep me alive, I took 

M.D.M.A. and acid, but this was a trip like nothing

else on earth.Like my own patch gaming a play-

station Silent Hill in a Stephen King hospital. All

I could do was grip the blankets like a seat belt

and take the trip between life and death, a trip

and a half.

 

Hallucinating a man behind my bed, cutting my body

Parts with a chainsaw tossing them into a skip

And I was following. Or a group of consultants add-

ministering the drugs of death just before

The needle pierced the skin. I woke in a cold

Sweat, my head was up my black hole.

.

 

Drifting life/death for 48 or 72 hours, I was lost

Hanging on by the skin of my teeth. The con-

Sultans whispered their truth, not knowing what

Category life/death: I was drifting. Realized or un-

Realized. Self-determination is a beautiful re-

Source: was I an object or subject mangled by

Tween both. All my balance was broken. A girl

A yellow top gestured to me water, a simple cup

Of water means so much from a cleaner with

Very little English but humanity. I wanted to say

Thank you. The words fell through my mind, but no-

The thing came out of my mouth.

 

My memory was gone. I was paralyzed down

my right, my balance was broken, I had no speech.

 There was nothing in my mind to compare to

even writing these twenty years later, I still have 

nothing to declare compare to my past tense.