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.

 

 

Stroke art is an anagram

for what's not on my mind.

I was a creative writing

tutor working as developer.

setting up workshops linking

Belfast, Dublin, L/Derry. all

Ireland peace poetry.

I loved my job love it felt

a vocation. Some of my

students when on to set up

writers class and published

works of their own. 

Only paid a pittance wage

I worked twenty- four hours

money didnt matter- Poetry

like sunshine is free, my moto.

I took a massive stroke in 2005

that would have killed a horse.

They say I died for seconds

and woke bolt upright and woke

to this strange world of unemotional-

enginneering in a blemished-

 acceptance.

My hard drive was erased of 45 years.

I cant remember my three sons being 

born and a twenty, the strange thing is

Irecognie them as family but for the half-

life  of I have no memory. I cant even re-

member my own childhood. the stroke

left me in a wheelchair parlyzed down

the right side of my body. Aphasia-aphan-

tasia, for 20 yearsI have been writing

a blog called 

             

THE WRITE HEMISPHERE.

Poe-artry is my life, my dark hopeless hope:

@apf1961.blogspot.com  my web is:

adrianfox.org     I havepublished 7 books

of poetry, my last publication is called

Aphantastic tales by lapwing press- Ihave no agenda for money fame, I Just hope it helps

other lost people who live outside humanity.

I live for my art and like my development

work I set up a programe called C.R.A.I.C.

community relations activity in Craigavon

put my name into youtube and my poe-artry

will appear art is my only savior, I just hope

it helps others. 

I have no mindseye like a blind imagination

there is no help for me, self determination is 

a wonerful thing wrting and art is the dignity  disabled need for them to accept that they are broken but they have art to express their inner being.

 

 c

 These words I am compelled to write

are like a cling on to memory. I  know 

they are a human condition, its not un-

til I write them like a formula.A sham-

manic negabilty.

.

Counting the sylabls on my good one hand.

I dont know anything else, I had a life but

thats all gone so i c,ing on to nonsense.

Nietzsche and the will to power.

I belive we both had a stroke at 45, he

lived like I outside humanity he turns

my muck to gold.Ariadnes lament, stab

my pure heart.,

Morphic poe-artry Cynicism,dog-

rell honest. I have to live in sur-

realism even if I dont recall that

instance by the half-door. I wish

my words rang true.

All i have are words, of a moment

us moment a pomement dawing of

the day, a fox skulked out of the ditch I think ? Ihope

honest

 

THE HUNGARIAN PILLOWCASE

The poet Maria mc Manus retweeted 

a tweet and a good Friday memory  

came flooding like the Danube, Buda-

Pest, a country like Ireland turned

On its side, people like the Irish fifty

Years ago. 

I took to it and they took to me, I traveled 

the length and breadth of the land Pec’s, Szolnok 

Szeged, lake Balaton. Atilla Jozsef was my Patrick-

 Kavanagh both statued in my statue park.

I  can't remember what I'll never forget

Cant cling to this moment but I can blog

Get/for its people made it my second home. 

I went to read peace poems and set up work

shops but they workshopped me Serbs 

and Croats we were Hungarian Irish 

the boundary was one.

The good Friday agreement was on

Their desk they knew every word as if

Their own, the Irish ambassador welcomed

Me home into the bosom of mother earth.

This is a blog of Morphic resonance, poe-

artry, I feel these words vibrate.

 CONSCIOUSNESS ATILLA JOSZEF STYLE

Armorous abstraction



I felt the cosmic

order gleam-the leaves like

tiny butterflies.



Build a bonfire,

 a super-duper one 

to warm everyone.

No arrows, stones

                 or guns just a sigh of beauty-

                        a train whistle blows.

 Poe-artry: Morphic

vibration of life

act1

0N THE GUN RUN WITH MUTTLEY

These images are seared into my mind not like memory.

I feel them don't  see, like my poetic faction. 

 I am not sureif they fit in poetic fiction there is nothing else nothing else in my mind. 

Like odes they are a song of myself. I wanted to write a romantic poem like keats and milton but my paradise is lost. The morphic

vibration of life is felt through works of art like a shamanic foot-

fall,fingerprint. I feel poe-artry without memory, poe-artry 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 mean so much to me likes those

two states A Fox thought and the dreamscape of the fox thought.

I cant put my finger footfall on natures memory but I 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 hologam, a grey state. Beside my hospital

bed was an exit door above it was a little greenman. I was tripping

like I never tripped the drugs to keep me alive were making me

hallucinate and my balance was gone, I couldnt even put my foot 

on the floor, it was like an ocean. My compass point of fantacy 

 and reality, I had no fixed point couldnt 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 

on 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 seen the greenman then I was in reality

and not fantacy hallucinating. I realized that the consultants

whispered not knowing where i fitted in life or death.

Self-determination gives you strength if you just believe in you

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 deaths door. Declared dead for seconds,  I seen my reflection in my sons eye

like a 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 cemetary 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 wonderful thing. If  only

we believed in ourselves.  I was on the road to recovery not hell.

Memory threw this up, compelled to write even on repeat.   The cottage holds a treasure of memory if only I could remember

I ran through an acre of summer scent greenery 

a world i had never known, brought up inner city

streets, I have no recollection of how sweet that

freedom wind felt, the morphic resonance

of the poet Patrick Kavanagh poetic footfall.

He came to encapture, enrapture me 

in my mother's birthplace. The Dodder, 

Rathmines,The grand canal poems.

                                                                             

He was my bright shillings of March 1961 

my birthright, the time at the cottage was 

so strange. Now I have no mental imagery, 

blind imagination. I followed in the poet's 

footsteps. I went on to be a writer with 

a master's degree, creative writing tutor 

with seven collections of poetry.

There is a poetic coincidence I dont or cant 

fathom, they appear accidently on purpose. 

I wrote of entangible essence,The Ray river 

flowing out to sea as if they were meant to be 

a part of me.I only know this because I wrote 

them my poems are my memory like touchable 

recurring dreams but I am so confused. Everything 

links to everything there so no clutter in my life so 

in a sense thats a good but i miss my friends you 

know who you are.

Muttley chased black and white camouflaged

cows like the camouflaged british army who beat

him with rifle butts, three legs and one eye that

dog was my best friend.Away from war, the cows

chased us laughing he barked with joy.No more

war torn streets, we both were shell-shocked. He

was kicked to near death and I was dragged from

a gunbattle,bullets ripped the street at my feet, 

The Da,he was released on bail from a nine month 

special powers act. I thought we all ran from war-torn. 

When he died I learned that the I.R.A..owned the cottage

to run guns across the border, my poetry was riddled syl-

labels. Patrick Kavanagh was more of a father to me.

This picture memory are all that is left of my freedom winds.

I feel like that dog now broken with one hand no mind long-

term memory is gone but in a poem I will never forgot.

  DUENDE    

'found death in life, may find life in death'

                                        Samuel Taylor Coleridge

A residue of darkness

lives within us.  I wrote

about the womb dream

and the blotches of dark

long before my stroke.

Caused by deep trauma

in birth or being lost with-

in yourself during stroke etc.

There must be millions of us

walking around unable to talk

about our darkness, this is not

evil or sinister only to much light

can warp the dark.  When I wake

from a deep sleep my room is

stippled in dark but there is

always the dawn breaking through

my sight.  We live in a world of

light and dark and society can't

always be right because it shifts

back and forth.

For example Keats and Coleridge

lived loved in life with death and

in their sight were right.  I'm trying

to live with my darkness and that's

good enough for me, to see.

NEGATIVE CAPABILITY

 

 

If it’s good enough for Keat’s 

then Its good enough for me. 

Cockneypoet with negative 

capability, he knew his lot.

Stroke, Aphantasia is a hurdle 

and a half-paralyzed aphasia

A poet without a voice.

 

I am stating facts of cold grey matter.

I’m-poet-tent in a wheelchair under

Their tree with vibes of the Buddha.

These men are incomparable to any-

One else. Old age sickness and death.

Suffering is the truth, way of the world.

 

Harmony and sentimentality is a blasphemy

Reach out for a touchable dream. Form-

and matter is a contra-diction.

 

 This is a collection of pomements holo-

graphic memory. I cant conjure up images 

in my mind. I have no mind’s eye aphantasia 

but I feel muscle memory. Intrigued by Henri-

Bergson and Iain mc Gilchrist and the divided 

brain. Rupert Sheldrakes morphic resonance 

and Alan Watts backward law.

These great men great poets like Carver, 

Kavanagh, Pessoa to name but a few. I don't 

let on to know these great works or form but their basic 

vibration of life helped me live with a broken mind, 

to accept my broke imperfection and make my words 

for me alone flow.

They are on to something dealing with literature

and scientific fact. I used to write of dreams

and imagination. I had a massive stroke that wiped

my left brain of forty five years of memory. 

It has taken me twenty years to get to this point these

great writers like Michaux and James Simmons.

I am so privileged to stand up sit down on my throne

Wheelchair. These great men gave me the write

Hemisphere. Marguirette Dumass wrote on her

Studies on melancholy: 

When you find your self in a hole at the bottom 

of a hole you realize that only writing will save you.

That and John Berrymans blind-brow, John Keats

negative capability and the magic hand of chance, I live 

with that negative capability, I am still on that spectrum 

of negativity. 

In 2005 I couldn’t read or comprehend a sentence, 

writing was like fishing with maggots they were all 

over the show but I rewrote  my doggerel pomements

Pomes of the moment. I don’t have any emotional

 engineering, so past present dont exist in my world.

I don’t even my children being born childhood or 20 

years of marriage but my pomes are vehicles of holo-

graphic memorys. I attempted suicide twice and left

to deal wiith suicidal tendencies. Even the mental

health couldn’t tell  they hadn’t a clue about aphan-

tasia even G.P.  never heard of it and it was diagnosed 

in 1508.

 

I found out on youtube from guy who attempted

Suicide twice he couldn’t picture his dead mother.

So much for N.I. mental health. I found out my own

Way through and its been Aphantastic, I am dignified

dis-abled.

 

A flick up on my blog of hopeless hope I don’t

come to this from a scientific mind. I know that my

mind is broken I no longer have the brain power to

Teach creative writing  Fernando Pessoa wrote in

The dream of being alive, its not necessary just to

Live but to feel, that’s good enough for me.