Hi, I READ JILLS, SO I MIGHT HAVE MESSAGED HER; MEMORY LOSS?

AFTER STROKE

                                 VIBRATION OF LIFE, HZ FREQUENCY OF HUMANITY

adrian fox <adrianpfox8@gmail.com>	Jun 12, 2023, 11:59 AM
To A.Zeman

ADAM, LIKE YOUR PATIENT. I KNOW I WAS THERE 

BUT CANT SEE I TOOK A MASSIVE STROKE IN 2005 

THAT WIPED OUT MY HARD DRIVE.

LOST ALL LONG-TERM MEMORY, CANT REMEMBER

 MY 3 KIDS WERE BORN DURING MY MARRIAGE OF YEARS OR MY

CHILDHOOD, BUT WHAT IS SO STRANGE IS WRITER

 WITH SEVEN BOOKS BEFORE MY STROKE 

AND WROTE MY AUTOBIO AS IF I KNEW I WOULD 

LOSE MY MEMORY. I LOOKED AT PHOTO OF 

AND REALIZED I FELT IT NEGATIVELY, BUT MY 

BROKEN MIND IS A DARK PLACE.

 
I ATTEMPTED SUICIDE TWICE POSITIVE SUICIDE

 WE ARE THINKING THE WRONG WAY AROUND.  

OR IS IT JUST FINDING POSITIVITY FROM WORDS BUT

I HAVE TO TELLING IM BROKE. THE OBJECT AND 

SUBJECTS ARE MANGLED IN ME.

I FIND IT SO HARD TO FIT. I WOKE IN ICU CRYING 

MY EYES ARE OUT. THE PSYCHE TEAM ASKED WOUL 

HURT ME AGAIN. I TOLD THEM I DID KILL MYSELF

 TO DIE, RILKE, THE POET, AID THE MAIN THING IS 

TO LIVE THAT THE PAINTING BUT LIKE LIFE 

IS A GAMBLE. I GAMBLED ON DEATH TO LIVE IS 

THERE SUH A THING AS POSITIVE SUICIDEE I HAD

 NOTHER CHOICE I HAD TO KNOW LIFE/DEATH.

LOOKED AGAIN, AND IT DAWNED ON ME THAT MY

 MIND IS SCARRED BY TRAUMA COULD ASPHALT-

ASIA BE A REACTION A  SURVIVAL SEQUENCE

AGAINST BRAIN INJURY. MY SONS AND WIFE 

 NOT  TRAUMA. I FIND IT SO HARD TO FIT IN 

JUST APHANTASSSIA.
.
It’s Aphantastic to put a name on some-
thing, the very thing that drove me to suicide. 
For the last eight years, I have been writing 

blackhole poetry, ‘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 if 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

ADAM SEVEN
said he had a condition

Called Aphantasia.

                  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.