These images are seared 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 mind. 

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 under my 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 yourself 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-zom-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.