BELFAST NEW YORK 72’

 

Etna drive, north Belfast

Was my shell-shock, just

Like your Creedmore

Mental health wealth.

 

When you find yourself

in a hole at the bottom

 of a hole realizing only

blackhole writing can

 save you.

Marguerite Dumas

 

Poe-t Lou Read is my hero -

In a blue mask-Street hassle

My Dirty Boulevard at the foot

Of black cave hills looking

Down but down-is-up, you

Said pale blue eyes.

 

Linger on, streetlights shot out

bullet machine gunfire dancing

at my feet but this my walk

on the wild side.

Brian Smyth

a memorial is etched into my mind.

 

The man who saved my life shot

dead like a rock ‘n’ roll animal.

Trauma rears its ugly head tossed

Over the hedge like going over

And over the top.

 

I’m glad I don’t picture this in

My no mind's eye. I feel like

It was yesterday, I’ll always

Remember his name. 

Lou Read

will always be my Riktar-

scale remembering not to forget.

APHANTASIA

 

 

 

 

 

 

I stole my father's coin collection, florins, and two bob bits he never

gave me pocket money. I loved to hate him, and vice versa, called me 

a filthy rat. My sister nicknamed me regal head like a punk without a fag. 

He left me for eight hours a day without a pick. I shared dog food 

with Mutttley my friend killed on Blaney road.

That was life in a cottage full of gunrunning across the border. 

One day he asked me to prime bomb, I looked him up and down

days later, Narrow water exploded. Haystacks were my British soldiers 

to me I was on a war game mission, on the run like him, the jack of a car

Was my toy gun. I don’t know where these memories are coming from.

I keep trying to run from these images but they are etched in my mind.

These words are like a full metal jacket reloading the jack of a car, spent-

Shell syllables litter-ra-ture my waste ground. The girl in picture is dead, 

now suicide Stephanie my sister. The lady in red, I heard on a black n white

TV that picked up police messages. I heard on an A.P.B. an all-points bulletin

that she was carrying the Armalite that killed the British soldier, maybe she

couldn't live with herself, we will never know. My mind is steeped in this

imagery and I can't get away, I have to reload, bullet-ridden syllables, writ

and splutter out of me.

 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.

 

 LOST IN A MEGA-RICH FOG

If the cap fits wear it!

 

We have been henpecked by capitalism.

Britain had a great tradition of eccentric  

Individualism but the film: ‘A Long- 

Good Friday’, has become a reality 

and we live now in a world of greed 

taken over by the American dream.

 

Our souls are moneybags labeled 

with A brand name. It’s no longer ok 

just to Win ten thousand pounds on a game show.

We want to win a hundred million and get

sucked into a million-pound drop.

 

We are dropping to a level where you

don’t need Knowledge and art anymore

All that matters is the money in your pocket.

We are lost in a gambling haven Sanctioned 

by a government that takes gains from drugs 

drink and gambling. When I went to school 

they taught and promoted individualism, now 

they teach business and greed.

 

I don’t have answers my only way is to reject

 greed. We have already Been swamped by the

 dream, it is Taking us down

the road to nowhere.

Heres my website:  adrianfox.org

DIS-ABILITY-19/9/2014

 

This is the very reason why I’m a non-voter, I was

 very saddened to hear the news from my care

 giver’s that Scotland got the “NO” vote. 

I was very sad for Scotland, they stood up and took

 it on the chin but I was saddened for humanity,

 maybe this should have been a world wide web

 referendum. 

 

This was the first time in my life that there was a

 shift towards a true democracy but now I don’t

 even know the meaning of that word.  It feels like

 I’m right back at the start in a highchair not 

a wheelchair but I’m standing or sitting firmly in 

the fact that I know everything I’ve got in life, I got

 myself because I have true democracy and truth in

 my heart and as the “YES” vote said trust for each

 other humanity.

 

 Good on Scotland they took the world’s first step,

 just a shame they didn’t have the balls to follow

 through. We live in a molly-coddled nanny state,

 watched over by a sweet old lady that’s full of

 sentimentalism. I’ll stand up to sit down in this

 wheelchair for my rights in any country, when 

I took the stroke, and I woke unable to walk 

or talk paralyzed down the right side. 

 

It seemed to me that I was damaged goods

that they should have let die.  Their ethics of

 medicine and their moral judgment kept me alive,

 what about humanity.  No wonder our economy

is going down the drain. I have lived now for 

years since the stroke in this wheel-chair, really

 when you take me down to my basic form of

 humanity, I am just a brain

and a left hand. 

 

Living in a welfare state, it has cost the powers

 that be almost two hundred thousand pounds to

 keep me alive.  Not one second of my life has been

 any better than before the stroke, do you call this

 living?  If I had been given the choice of life and

 death I would have chosen death, we have the

 power to save life but it would cost billions or 

even trillions to build a disabled infrastructure.  

I would choose death not on the grounds of 

the ethics of medicine or moral judge-

meant but humanity.

 

That old wives tale is still alive and kicking

and that old crusade that we pump billions

into defense.  It doesn’t matter what land 

you’re from, this was a world debate 

and the world hasn’t got the balls to move on 

and be themselves. A Scottish friend sent me a

 pensée about always turning left 

that’s the right road.