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
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