The process of death had begun within.

I woke every morning to the room stippled

In darkness as if I had been dreaming, black.

Like blotches behind my eyes. For years this

 happened but no one could tell me why. 

I attempted suicide twice and no one could tell 

me what was the darkness behind my eyes.  

You put me in that dark state to wake from an

 overdose crying my eyes out knowing your 

broken system could care not.

I came from a mental health session, where 

I asked again and these professionals

 were clueless. I flicked youtube and watched 

a  man in session with a mental health professor

 ask why he couldn't see images of his dead mother 

in his mind and it drove him to suicide. 

The professor said you suffer from Aphantasia.

 A blind imagination. Just a name filled me 

with hope. Why didn't the psyche mental

 health people tell me? I found out on youtube. 

That says a lot for Northern Ireland's mental health 

teams are so outdated and backward. I have

 mentioned the name Aphantasia to Doctors and

nurses who never heard of it and these people

are arrogant and look down their nose at me. You 

people need to fix the system and give people

the dignity to live or die, they never heard of it

and it was first diagnosed in 1580, to think 

I attempted suicide twice. 

The psyche team asked if would I hurt myself.

I said I didn't attempt suicide to die. I gambled

death to live, everyone has the right to live or die 

but they wouldn't understand positive suicide. 

My dis-abled reality took me right down with 

half a brain half a body 45 years of memory

wiped away living with aphasia, aphantasia, un-

walking living dead do you think that's humane?

 

Life for me is so inhumane, you live in a one-way

 blinkered moral ethics of medicine. I was so far

down that you couldn't see or help.  I was so far

 down I had no freedom of choice and yours is 

life suffer and die what about humanity, have you

 got any?

I knew something was wrong. Cleaning my ears

 one day a blob of black wax came from each ear.

 This substance is what I was seeing behind my

 eyes like a womb dream from looking at the

 darkness for too long.

 After that, I no longer saw the dark behind my

 eyes, ten years after my stroke. this residue 

was the death within me from dyin' in the I.C.U.

For seconds, death was deep within the locked-in

 syndrome and no one told me of this, I was on

 death's door for so long. I sensed in my grey ashen 

flimsy hologram why couldn't you.

I knew the consultants didn't know where I fitted

 whispering me away to choke and die but

 humanity and these words were not your blinkered

 one way,  I sensed it in my humanity. Every

 morning I woke to the room stippled, why can't

 mental health professions tell you of this, maybe 

they need to go on youtube.

BLIND IMAGINATION DWELLER

MY WORK IS ON YOUTUBE- FACEBOOK

MY WEBSITE IS ADRIANFOX.ORG

THESE ARE THE IMAGES I WOKE EVERYDAY

LOOKS LIKE I WROTE A MEMOIR/POEM HOPE YOU DONT MIND WRIING ART IS MY LIFE.

 I REALLY ENJOY YOUR VIDEOS THE MUNCH PIECE WAS SUPERB I SAW DOCUMENTARY

BUT NEVER SO IN WE ARE BEYOND THAT LEVEL OF MENTAL WEALTH VAN GOGH AND

AND EGON, MUNCH. SHAME WE HAVE TO DIG SO DEEP IT'S LIKE DIGGING YOUR GRAVE.

DOWN IS UP MY HERO LOU READ. THESE IMAGES I WANT TO SHARE READ HAD TO

 COME UNDER ELECTROSHOCK THERAPY MESSED UP HIS MIND AND THE MEMORIES

 OF JOHNNY ROTTEN AND TOWNES VAN ZANT WE WOULDNT HAVE THEIR GENIUS OF

 LIVING IN FUCKED UP ART HAS A WAY OF DIGGING UP TREASURE. 

THESE IMAGES ARE FROM JUST WAKING UP FROM A MASSIVE STROKE THAT WOULD

 HAVE KILLED AHORSE. I JUST WANT TO SHARE THESE IMAGES. THEY SAY I DIED FOR

 SECONDS IN  I.C.U. THESE DARK IMAGES ARE FROM A TIME WHEN I WOKE EVERY

 MORNING WITH A STIPPLD DARKNESS LIKE BLOTCHES BEHIND MY EYES AND MY

 MENTAL PSYCHE DOCTOR HAD NO CLUE OF THE BLACK BEHIND MY EYES, 

THIS MY DIAGNOSIS:   

I AM A PUBLISED POET CREATIVE WRITING TEACHER WELL I WAS MIND IS SO BROKEN

 CANT CLING TO MEMORIIES NO MIND CAPACITY TO TEACH LIKE AN IN AN INFANT IN

 ADULT BODY 45 YEARS OF MEMORY GONE LIVING UNWALKING DEAD. SO HERE GOES 

I THINK THE DARKNESS COMES FOMTHE DEATH THAT WAS INSIDE ME I WAS SEEING

 THROUGH THE BLACK BEHIND MY EYE ONY AS I WAS CREATING THESE IMAGES I WAS

 CLEANING MY EAR A BLOB OF BLACK WAX   CAME FROM OTHER THE OTHER EAR NOT

 A SMALL AMOUNT I NEVER BEFORE HAVE I SEEN SO  MUCH SHOULD OF KEPT GOT IT

 TO HAVE TESTED.

 MY ART AND MY POETRY FOUND A FLOW STATE WITHIN EN IN A LOCKED IN

 SYNDROME PARALYZED DOWN RIGHT UNWALKING UN-TALKING A MAN WHO LOST

 ALL LONG=TERM, I CANT REMEMBER MARRIGE OF 20 YEARS AND THREE KIDS BUT 

 KNOW AND I HAVE NO IMAGERY NO EMOTIONAL ENGINEERING. 

MY ARTWORK BECAME

 LIGHER THE BLACK BEHIND MY EYES BRIGHTERONE DAY I CAME FROM MENTAL

 HEALTH  SESSION WHERE I ASKED  AGIAN AND LOOKED AT ME AS IF MAD. CAME

 HOME TOANOTHER LONELY DAY. MADE COFFEE FLICKED YOU STOPPED THE

 WORD APHANTASIA INTRIGUED I WATCHED THE GUY WAS DEBATING  PSYCHE

 PROFESSORABOUT NOT BEING ABLE TO SEE AN IMAGE OF HIS DEAD MOTHER HE WAS

 SO DOWN HE ATTEMPTS SUICIDE.  JUST LIKE ME TWICE.

THE PROFESSOR SAID YOU SUFFER FROM A BLIND IMAGINATION APHANTASIA JUST

 KNOWING THE  NAME FILLED ME WITH HOPE I KNEW I WAS DIGGING DARK I KNEW

 ALL ALONG THERE WAS HOPE METHOD TO MY MADNESS. I ATTEMPTED

SUICIDE TWICE, WILL YOU HURT YOURSELF, THEY HAD NO CLUE ABOUT APHANTASIA

MY BECAME HOPE BUT YOU HAVE TO THE BOTTOM TO COME. THIS APHANTASIA WAS

 FOUND IN 1580 SOME THESE ARTIST HAD AND DIDNT KNOW. I TOLD THE PSYCHE TEAM

 I DIDNT ATTEMPT SUICIDE TO DIE BUT I GAMBLED ON DEATH BECAUSE I WAS THE

 BOTTOM AND ONLY A GAMBLE LIFE WOULD KILL OR CURE LIKE THE WAY WE GABLE.

LIFE EVERYONE HAS THE RIGHT TO LIVE OR DIE BUTWE LIVE IN THE MORAL ETHICS

 OF MEDICINE. I LIVE ON THE WRITE HEMISPHERE IN MY OWN MIND AND MIND ALONE.

MARGAUIRETTE DUMAS SAID ON HER STUDIES OF MELANCHOLY:  WHEN YOU FIND 

YOUR IN A BLACKHOLE AT THE BOTTOM OF A BLACK HOLE REALIZING ONLY ART AND

 WRITING CAN SAVE. THE WRITE HEMISPHERE IS MY BLOG HOPE AND I AM STICKING

 TO IT.

THING START TO BETTER BUT MY REALITY STILL BITES.

It’s Aphantastic to put a name on something the very thing that drove 

me to suicide. For the last eighteen 

years, I have been writing black-

hole poetry, my writing has pulled 

me from the ledge, as John Berryman 

called ‘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 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 

said he had a condition

called Aphantasia.

Wow, just a name lifted my spirit 

and inspired me to create this 

blog of  hope.

adrianpfox8@gmail.com

THE FIRST WORDS I WROTE AFTER STROKE.

THINGS START TO LOOK UP AFTER

10 YEARS

 

 

 ORAL MORPHOGENETIC

 

 72 hour slow releasing count-

Down Fentanyl patch they eat

Them on the street. I was once

a drug ab-user, now take 20 pills

a day just to stay alive. In locked-

in-side like the unwalking dead.

 

The NHS is my dealer, pain killing

My broken back mind and bedsore bleeding.

Surviving with half a brain paralyzed

Down right side, live on the write hem-

Isphere my blog of negative capability.

 

Aphasia aphantasia lost my long-term

Memory, I can only remember life after

 my stroke. The stroke from death-coma

I sat bolt-upright in their moral ethics

Of medicine I.C.U. on the altar it was like

The exorcist tripping out my mind after

They declared me dead like nothing else

on earth. I know you're pissed listening to

my heretic rhetoric. Here I tick-tock my

my his-stoic blues pissed off litter-ally

spilt my urinal bottle. You can't beat

this truth bedridden.

 

Silent hill and chainsaw massacre, I gripped

The blanket in a cold sweat I hallucinated

This truth horror is nothing like death to

life trip. Hunter s. Thompson and cruci-

fiction that is it just fiction a page-turner

you can’t turn my page, it has turned me

into a debaser-where is my mind this mon-

key mind is erased, gone.

 

Religious nonsense means when god doesn’t

exist in my write hemisphere don’t you think 

that is strange my left brain was erased, hard-

drive wiped clean their words, not mine.

 

A Pedophile priest shove it down

Your throat and up your gets a house

A slave and a car. A disabled poet reaching

humanity gets a wheelchair told to shut up.

 

Is this what you call humanity, hypochristy. 

I only have half a brain but its mine

and mind alone.

 

 

 

Perspiration knows, inspiration

By his eyes catacombs like

A dig up into my past, memory

Archaeology, turning my muck

Into gold. Nietzsche told us

 

Years ago and we still haven’t

Learned his lesson of Ariadne

Anagram-this will to power.

 

A poem on a big

Mac carton of recyclable blues.

 

Szeged, Buda, Pest, Lake

Balaton. Map of Hungary inside

Inside me locked in a uni-

Verse of memory.