Saturday, 29 July 2023







                  MAYBE TOMORROW
                         muck to gold
                             Nietzsche

Keats knew his lot, half in love 
with death, Coldridge, too, found 
life in death, Duende- Lorca lit-
erasure is littered with death-life

Recycle what you have lost 
and it will wash and relish you.
My bar has been set low as low 
as I can go. The next rung down 
is a suicide, and I have tried that twice. 

Never again, I woke in A and E crying
my eyes out. Is this how you treat humans
Sisyphus or death. I attempted not to kill myself. 

I'm a poet, and to be a poet, you love life 
good or bad. There's only one humanity
You righteous chosen few, you have stolen 
society, you left me in dire straights.

A wheelchair atheistic fool with no mental
health wealth, but I am a human being that
my passport, which gives you the right to judge.
I will never forgive you; you left me in hell
had to take my head in the magic hands of chance
and cry down an overdose. Is this how you
Christian care hypocrisy. 

A human being is just not your sort, but there is 
only one humanity and a myriad of choices 
so who are you to leave me digging in the dirt.

Ok, I gambled death to live and care for humanity
that is all I ever wanted. I was rock bottom. You gamble 
life every day, I risked death to live, but you poor lot
wouldn't comprehend. I knew what I was doing; I was
drowning; it was black behind my eyes, not sin-is-ter-evil. 

The psyche mental health team couldn't tell me I had
aphantasia. I found out on youtube. they didn't know 
what I was talking about, even my Doctor never heard 
of it, I had aphantasia-diagnosed first in 1580. I was
just a wheelchair atheist fool mumbling aphasia non-
sense.

All my life, I pushed against religion. Now religion
steeped in care.  Show me a little humanity, respect.
That's the state of N.I. mental health ruled by a de-
played of sect-tare-racism. 1690-1916 it doesn't rain 
but it pours like a matrix of sell-by dates. Your either 
green or orange kicked by both sides, I'm white peace.

2.

I saw something when I was six in nineteen-
sixty-seven haunts this rant to throw up on 
the oilcloth like it did back then. I wrote this
Long before my stroke, troubled trauma seared
into my mind. I stood by the window a little 
English boy tearing my flea-bitten flesh in my 
brothers and me down rolled-up pjs.

 The picture on the wall in full moonlight was of 
a man drenched in blood lit by a red bulb of Crucial-
fiction to a thirty-year crude fact. All for hypocrisy
church-state killing all over the world, and holy war.

A man entered the cobbled street, chased by policemen B-specials, their number flashed in the moonlight.
I had never seen the night so bright, like a widescreen
high definition from the entry to  New and Olde
Ardoyne. I was six and had never seen anything like this.

They toughened him down outside my window
like a magnifying glass. I couldn't pull myself 
away you cant unpen-unsee reflections I can't 
remember or forget. They beat him into the gutter
and jumped on his head in hobnailed boots, two up
two down concaved hatred. 

Threw up on the lino floor, his head opened like 
a rotten tomato. My mother rushed in and closed
the curtain, she saw what I saw; Mum, what is this 
place of hate-filled death and alien fleas outside
bogs, banshee stories that were 67', she never 
answered.

We time-travelled from London to Belfast in another
century and I still don't understand hate. Next morning 
I went for broken biscuits, checked the gutter to see 
I didn't just dream it, the way blood that begets blood 
was bleached white, broken wafers, amen. 

Religion and care are mixed into a paste to bleach the blood
of holy war. The man in the gutter was the man drenched 
in blood.











DOWN  

IS UP  


 

Morphic remembrance






CREMATION-ANIMATION

In the beginning, Mum created 
my heaven on earth. I created 
this image from grief shuddered
in me like muscle memory, with no
idea in my mind. We are told
not to dwell on death but on the dead 
gives us life cremate-animation.

I scoured the internet for a fixed
point something I could cling to
like a compass point. Nietzsche,
Alan Watts, my hero, Will 
and Will to power but nothing
jumped off the screen or kindled me.

Poetry quotes and first lines were reeled
like a fly rod, but nothing was hooked.
Carver, Kavanagh, and Lowell trembled 
to caress the light. Flicked on youtube 
Bible, but after the first line, it reads like
a Disney story Aesop Fable A Fox
looking up at sour grapes.

Just as I was giving up the cursor 
picked up Mum, it drew me in 
I stared deeper. How did I create 
this image? It's black behind my eye, 
she is my compass point. She was 
the most incredible human being I had known.

Patty Keogh from Rathmines, Dublin.
She was my north, south, east and west
my poe-art, she knew I was a crazy kid
without fear, she saved my life thrice. 
It feels like she is writing this the picture
of ashen grey.

Living the streets of Ardoyne, take 
that wild child or will die on these 
war-torn streets.To run away to 
her sister in London-Dublin after 
beating my father, hard- man.

I took a stroke and crawled into her 
room, she had 5 strokes and sixty
with a paralysed hand. She got me 
off the floor with a mothers strength
into her bed, phoned the doctor 
who was there in minutes?

I felt the paint grief on canvas, cremated
ash and tears. She created this image
I trembled to see her light, just a simple 
being she is the first line of my creation.
The picture of Patty Keogh, ashen grey
A Dub like Oscar, a little piece of sky.




 A VIBRATION OF LIFE

MORPHIC REMEMBRANCE

 

Morphic resonance rolls 

off my tongue. I saw words

 waterfall from the canals 

of the right hemisphere.

 


I can't conjure up images, no mind's eye.

The stroke brain injury created aphantasia, black 

behind my eyes. Memories from years ago 

wave and weave like it was yesterday, but

no images come to mind; I re-

member moment our comments.



 

 In my broken mind, there is no past/present

Tense living in now and now, A Fox thought.

A Fox looking at a fox by a fox, memory

Comes from muscle memory; life remembers

Life repetitively repeats my morphic field.

 

Fernando Pessoa wrote in the book Dream

of being alive, It's not necessary just to live

but to feel. I feel Pomes, without memory

a past or present unemotional engineering.

I might be disabled, but I think phantasmic.


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