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 conditioncalled Aphantasia.Wow, just a name lifted my spirit and inspired me to create this blog of hope.

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

MARK 2.

MARK 2.

MARK3.

DO IT!

DJ ROY ALL A-Z  

ADD TRACKS FROM YOU TUBE.  DO RECORDS AS WELL IN CAFE, I'LL ADD MY EMAIL ON FACEBOOK ENJOY

 

 

 

A stroke of luck

 

My son Glenn called at my disabled bungalow. 

Me being bedbound he sat,y my side like 

brothers as always. He told me of his brothers 

and mother's difficulty with their cost of living

 crisis I said I would try to help but I had my own.

 

Problem and had little ready cash as I was

 scammed last year of twenty thousand pounds. 

My bank balance is only starting to bounce back, 

I was never really into money.

 

So, I never let it get to me but my family

Could have done with it. I explained to him.

That the massive stroke I took in 2005 that

Left me crippled in a wheelchair paralyzed.

Down my right side and I lost all long-term

Memory. I can’t remember my three sons

Being born my own childhood and 18 years

Of marriage, due to the brain injury, I suffer.

 

From aphantasia that’s like a darkness behind

Your eye unable to conjure up a picture, no

Mind’s eye it’s as if I live a 24 hour Déjà vu.

As if you can’t put my finger on life, as if

 I’m on repetitive repeat we talked about

A tv series that id saw nine years ago like

This was the first time even my audible

The library is full of books I’ve read three or

Four and I will read them again tomorrow.

 

I’ve done that after my year in the hospital.

Learning to brush my own teeth and wipe

my own ass, being bed bound living under

Care four times a day, I can hardly fucking move. 

I said to Glenn that the stroke might just have 

saved my life that I can’t remember.

 

There’s a blackness behind my eyes that

the able-bodied world doesn’t understand even 

the psyche and mental health hasn’t got a clue.

 Sentimental nonsense hurt's I don’t, even my 

family they haven’t a fucking clue what I am

 talking about.

 

Aphantasia and long-term memory loss is a form 

of dementia I forget everything I would be better

 off dead. I’ve attempted suicide twice and woke 

in tears in hospital even my care company don’t

 understand my family.

Even I don’t understand cause it’s gone?

 

My childhood, I don’t think my mind is strong

 enough to handle my shit childhood. I can’t 

remember the detail but let’s just say it started on a 

cobbled street with an outside loo do you need any 

more detail, north Belfast I was dragged up

 through a hedge backward the son of a bastard’s 

son, my father and I never spoke as we loved to 

hate each other. It’s strange even uncanny that I

 lost my memory.

 

For ten years before the stroke, I wrote

Almost every detail of my life in seven secure

Steel boxes in the back room. I think I’ve written

 these umpteen times before. I would be better 

off dead there’s a bit of black humor for you 

could you handle this?

 

 PEACE

 

Life is like a butterfly

In John Keats's eye, blue

But very beautiful flitting 

to death.

 

I’m looking out to season

And it is looking back at me.

The leaves are golden brown

And the sky is summer blue.

I wish that we could be united

Tender and true?

 

I can see the butterfly within

The layers of tears, I can feel

your magic hand of chance

getting to give humanity

Boldly saying though art free.

RAW WAR

 

Raw war

Is over.

 

Let

Humanity

Begin.

DE-MILI-TEAR-EYES

 

 

TOTEMBRYO

For Dennis

 

I’m flabbergasted, lost for words.

Aphantastic tales, essays, 

pensee’s to be published 

soon

is more than just poetry

Poetic humanity.

 

More than Lagan/Lapwing

More than taig, prod, jew

Red, blue, green, orange.

Don’t look out, look in

And you will wake to

The anagram N.I. We

 

Don’t realize we are

In such a unique place

On this raped, ravaged

Global earth. We have

What the world wants

Peace, poetry like sun-

Shine is free.

 

I wrote a poem in 94’

‘Unwritten graffiti’

 

It’s what we wont

Write now that really

Matters the clear white

Pristine spaces between

the verses.

 

Poetry iss beyond Irish ( I rich)

We are not Irish, English, euro-

Pean, we are beyond a protocol

A line drawn in a current-sea.

 

Six counties are we, we came

Through civil wars to get here.

This is a green and orange up-

Rising, our creation nation.

 

Hi this a small collection of poems and inspiration, he gave me so much hope and energy chi,

He made me see beyond my disabled front door my massive stroke almost killed left me paralyzed I'm

only finding memory having lost My long-term memory my children and my married childhood for 20 years, not into money etc. would you be interested in publishing, I'll send you a sample, I found so much hope in his filthy realism dirty boulevard.

 

THE PILED-UP PYRE

 

I woke to a Lou Reed

Arc around my black screen

View like a street hassle  

Between thought and expression.

 

The clock read 03:30

not like a childhood memory

on Etna drive but a mountainous

cave hill and Napoleons nose conquered.

 

I know I was there collecting wood

For the bonfire, we made a hut

In the center of the piled-up pyre

A Saracen tank ran it over.

 

Lucky the gang was out rioting

It must have been august seventy

Or seventy-one no picture comes

To mind just Lou Reads dirty boulevard.

 

Sipda bardo like a memory of my own

Through the black and blue face mask.

 

hi this a small collection of poems and inspiration, he gave me so much hope and energy chi,

He made me see beyond my disabled front door my massive stroke almost killed left me paralyzed I'm

only finding memory having lost My long-term memory my children and my married childhood for 20 years not into money etc. would you be interested in publishing, I'll send you a sample, I found so much hope in his filthy realism dirty boulevard.

 

this is not even half/

pandemonic