Relax, you bum! / You know the poems have

always come/ even your doubts when they’re

 from the heart/presage new terrifying works

  of art. The spirit of Port-muck-Muckish gap.

 

The poet’s house is alive and kicking, in me.

I had three mentors in my life, and he was one

Who took me from the streets of Belfast.

A trinity of them three moved in me.

I tried to give what he gave. A master's decree.

 

Setting up a creative link Belfast-Dublin-Derry-

Donegal-Portadown. Like him,
I took a massive stroke.

An-your-ism muck into a golden moment, a negative

capability awoke with this poem written between

sleep and awake knowing he will never

ever be dead in my no mind’s eye.

 

Alchemist of poetry through The Muckish gap.

His poetic language was like a sacred skimming stone.

I can’t picture him throwing the stone on the beach

with Ben his son but it’s felt rippling across the waves.

 

LITTLE DARK ONE

For kitty

 

Glenn was a Hoddle, Dean

Was a James. I was a rebel

Without a memory, a uni-

verse day the little dark

one swam into my view.

 

A woman in the next cubicle

Curtained off, screaming ‘ya

Bastard, ya bastard’.  ‘I wouldn’t

Mind but that’s her seventh’, said

The midwife in the green gown.

 

I had been there twice before ark-

ward, immature and embarrassed

Nothing to say but push, breath, darling.

There to hold you, words fall away.

His sun kissed jet black hair wafting blond

Like blossom in the cold light of day.

 

               

Six hours of labor and we were emotionally

Exhausted.  I drove home through the lonely

Rounabouts to a still house and climbed into

An empty bed, I was drifting off until. Name

entered my mind.  The bed was covered in

encyclopedias, dictionaries, name books,

wide eyed I flicked through writers

Artists, scholars, for a name to jump

Off the page.  Then I remembered

The petals of labia majora opening

And the sudden change from black

Hair to blond, free as in water.

A kaleidoscope of color, light

In my tears.

 

I scanned a name book A, B, C, D,

E, F, G, H, I, J, KERN (little dark one).

I closed my eyes and fell over.

 

 RE-ACT-OR-SCALE

Life is a con-spire-race theory, we come out back to front, live the other way round. We have been conned to in-spire to think. You do not take to give; this is will not kill we are legalizing a sick society; my moral compass is off the reactor-scale.

A so called god can live with this, I can’t and I have no memory. I said twenty years ago think the write way round and everything will be sound. Listen to eastern and Russian input not the wests sick output one wants to rule the world while one just wants to be. The news of the day is full of pedophilia rape rings life has looped the loppy loop sex scandals, I had to watch beastiaity legality and still couldn’t take it in.my mind doesn’t go there, I was brought up to respect, but world is not respectful. Its ok to live in mass shootings that’s the endless war. Military warmongering gives us peace what mindless wanker came up with think the fucking right way round.

Life had looped the loppy loop killing peace its written in the bible. Our minds are being warped life is back to front. You don’t need to be religious to have a moral compass, I am lucky to have lost my memory to have nothing to do with this con job . I’m crying for you can take this anymore, I want out of this derision ,die-vision.

It’s not necessary just to live but to feel writ Fernando Pessoa and his womb dream of being alive. 

As Rilke wrote that’s the main thing that doesn’t con-spire to a race theory. 

Dream of being alive.