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.
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