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.