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.

 I am writing this from a boy's perspective

I cannot remember but some very

traumatic instances are etched in my mind. 

I took a massive stroke that almost

killed me and left me in a wheelchair paralyzed

 with no long-term memory erased. The boy's

 perspectives were written before my stroke 

so you will have to take my word so wilL I as 

I have no memory.  I am going to write this

from a boy's eye and a disabled no mind's eye like writing from two lifetimes boy-man and vice-versa.

I suffer from brain injury aphasia-aphantasia, my

 left brain they say was erased, wiped my hard

 drive so it might seem cold but I have

 no emotional engineering, I can't remember my

 childhood marriage, and three it's as if forty-five

 years never happened. photographs are

my memory so I'll show you images as my mind 

is blank at times, from short term, I will try to 

make to save on my blog in long term. I can't 

cling to memory.

 I never felt the beat of my heart until 

I was six years old, then it beat like 

a bodhran drum I held the mobile stair-

case and my mother's hand like the branch 

of a tree when falling. Six years cocooned

in my mother's love and security.

Looking up at the giant steel bird, I couldn't

comprehend how it stayed gravity for me was

a breeze block was thrown up to fall on my head

like this an experiment without blood.

We were going to my father's bastard town

the one he ran from aged fifteen to reinvent

himself and lie his way through life. he was

so dark and deep. the story goes he was left

on a doorstep.

you couldn't trust the conman he was so bent.

i think he won over my mother's good heart

for the six years we moved town, the school

he was running from his lying past.

There are rumours of east end of london

ganglands were gunning for him, why would

you run back to a bastard town you ran from.

N.I.was probably the best place to hide during

the trouble why go to war torn streets in 67'.

Somuch i dont know even my name he used 6

different names, a family of 6 kids born in

a different english city or town. he is buried up

on the black hillsin a plotless we cant find, he died

as he a lonely liar. hewalked out on two little girls

and amother dying of cancer, those girls searched

for thirty years and my mother never knew of them.

i dont want him tosmother this piece but there is so 

much i dont know here is my view.

 YOU-JUST-CANT-BEAT-THE-TRUTH

 

There-is-no-alternative-to-that-word-fuck-

it’s-in-the-ditcion--ary.You-can-flip-feck-

all-you-want-to-be-a-righteous-snob-but-

there's-no-getting-away-from-the-fact-

that-i-am-fucked.

Stick-your-sentimentality-I-want-the-dogs-honest-

truth-Fuck-like-love, -rose-a-four-letter-word-

It-holds-no-agenda-no-malice-i-can’t-live-in-lies-

just-like-Spike-milligan-who-said-we-are-so-fucked.

That’s-the-world-i-live-in-doggrel-ville-God-is-to

you-like-fuck-to-me-an-unex-plain-able-term-for-

the-streets-where-come-from.-I-am-not-a-righteous-

snob-don’t-tell-me-what-to-do?

 

Ok-said-I’ll-stop-saying-the-F-word-when--You-

stop-saying-the-g-word-he-turned-and-walked-away—

So-much-for-the-hand-of-friend-ship-the-magic-hand-

of-chance-he-turned-the-other-cheek.

—A-preacher-man-once-told-me- reading

my-book-of-poems-you-dont-need-God-

your-full-of-humanity.-

p

NO

THE G WORD HEAR YE HEAR YE!

for GG 

Dharma bum, watching MOATS-mother 

of all talk shows. I felt GGsvibration,  

frustration ringing through me like 

a town crier crying forlornly of

 the Peterloo massacre, are we

going back there.? 

GG dont be offended this isn't about 

religion or holy war it is about humanity. 

And don't pick up that fucking gun, DE-

MILI-TARE-EYES. 

Life is peace there is nothing else. I know 

I have writ you before but your words were 

so true it rattled these words to flow like tears.

I have long-term memory loss, and can't cling

to memory. This is the anniversary of  lyrical 

ballads inspired by the French Revolution, 

France is on fire again. 

I have lived through a thirty-year war in N.I. 

Whatever happened to neutrality and a twenty-

year peace pro-cess-pool of bombed peace. 

My sister killed herself what waste 

a beautiful lass ravaged by war stop 

the paranoia and get help the world is

depressed don't deny it help us to help you. 

My family are shell shock victims alcos 

my mother had five strokes, I took 

a massive one that nearly killed me 

left me paralyzed in a wheelchair is this 

what you want. 

Just think what R.U.S.A.with China

we could end poverty, our water 

sewage is killing us by is this de-

mock racey, this will be norm? 

They say I  died for seconds in 

I.C.U.

I have lost all long-term memory 

cant remember my 3 kids being born 

or being married, lost all sensation

sense of humor a creative writing tutor 

jokes and litter-ature go right over 

my head. 

45 years of memory gone like a child 

in an adult body, no minds eye emotional 

engineering. I have writ some of this 

before no memory.

 

We went from an anti-war stance in 

a propaganda in-stance, to a pro-war 

this is an epidemic of global P.T.S.D.

Were shell shocked and bewildered 

at how greed and corruption has ate 

hate speech on its way into our system. 

For hear ye! news I watch: The Dive,

Redacted, Greyzone, Duran.

The mainstream media explodes like 

a Nord stream thunderous methane fart

and Greta says nothing about climate 

dam-busting, eco-ego-war-rior, that truth 

child is gone, and were left with the wonder 

woman NATOgirl to Biden his little girls.

I wonder who's pulling the tangled-strings 

puppet-tear cry me a dam burst stream 

of terrorist sabotage de-mock-racey is no 

longer a B.L.M.matter the world is on the street.

Europa were not working for a Yankee 

dollar sanctions have backfired the little 

soldier Shultz is running but there

is nowhere to hide from the satellite eye.

In-put the Russian doll breeds the Russian 

call for arms. That's all we need a perverted 

president.  Hard to get up in the morning 

with a Pinocchio erection a wooden liar war-

monger who loves little girls, we are in for it.

I am one of six children in a wheelchair

riddled by alcoholism and shell shock. 

This blood Begets blood has got to stop. 

from Jesus and the Crucifiction to Shake-

spearian, Orwellian fiction Dostoyevsky, 

Grief by Chekov, The dead Joyce. Graveyard 

matter talking to the dead gives us reason 

to live in negative capability.

Faction truth from fiction gives us truth 

and humanity will grow, war crimes 

and lies from a shallow state plundering 

and killing like mafia dons or vikings, my 

father came from this world but I want 

none of that, this is a slippery slope were on.

These stories all are ringing true Gulag 

death camps and Victor Frankil pulled 

us through with a stoic wonder you just 

can't beat the truth ringing, hear ye,

 hear ye!

Tragic comedy is back-to-front comedic 

tragedy black humor and the king of black 

humor Spike said we are 

so fucked!

This is a war of linguistics and propaganda 

Biden the hard-man is in high noon or Shane

 come back Shane,do you want Gunslinger 

Biden back, he's lawless. 

It's like wherein a film script Peter Sellers 

Dr Love strange is riding a new clear- bomb. 

There is no coming back from this one. 

We are on a Tarantino script it goes to the 

core of humanity's strange love. Someone 

tell them it's a nuclear black fucking joke, 

now so close to the bone it's reality, a flimsy 

hollow gram.

Even Noam Chomsky the main man 

of linguistics with a bloodline of immigrants

 Russian/Ukraine is lost for words. He doesn't

do hate lingo. Forget the labels and borders, 

get off your high horse of capitalism lets talk 

of snobbery tripping up humanity.

Tear up the script like the peace declaration 

Bojo the clown threw in the bin and we 

are arresting Trump. These people walk 

freely down billionaire boulevard with their 

friends Andrew, Epstein and co while humanity 

whistle-blower Assange rots in jail for 

the crime of humanity.

People we have been blinkered 

and the Australian government 

feel no shame. Revolt, revolt, 

revolt this is Peterloo day the

 peasant's revolt. 

I went on a warmonger podcast 

to see their so-called bigger 

picture and heard words that once 

were poetic like nomenclature,

un-due-late, nonchalant, hate 

speech flowed to bomb peace.

I felt sick and violated, pixelated 

so much for the big picture, these 

words for me were like stand-

alone poetry they bombed to

 smithereens, poems within poems.

 

and like Northern Ireland they tore 

the lost lives book up in your face like 

a sacred text. commemorating

the fallen, taigs, prods, I.R.A. UVF

Soldiers and police.

Blood begets blood means blood-

shed will follow. The fucks are not 

bad language its the cluster of hate

 speech.I come from the streets of

 Belfast a spade is a fucking spade.

My words will do you no harm, 

l don't have an agenda.I might 

live in a disabled hell cell but 

I'm a poet in love with life even 

if its a dark hope, poetry like 

sunshine is free. 

I said to a born-again guy once 

my so-called bad language is

just four-letter words that are 

in the dictionary like love rose 

they hold no malice.

It's the hate speech said by so-

called righteous people I am a

 wordsmith, they are part of me 

   like god is part of you. 

Ok said I and spat on my palm 

and held it out, l'll stop saying 

the f word if you stop saying 

the G word. 

My mother from Dublin, 

Rathmines, the Dodder, 

used to say 'It's not hard 

to be civil'.

 

BACK TO FRONT

A salutation for Jose Rizal

'Whoever does not sometimes give full consent, and a joyous consent, to the dreadfulness of life, can never possess the utterable richness and power of existence'.

                                                                  

                                                          Rainer Maria Rilke

As if Rainer Maria Rilke and John Keats 

were alive in these challenging times of economic 

gloom, spinning their web of negative capability.  

Holding us in a protective balm against the sentimental 

manufactured culture and our greed for consumerism 

in a throw-away nonsense society. 

These are the days when we must face the 'waking 

dream' and wake to the world of human frailty 

and stop hiding behind the hem of Christianity.  

I am not out to offend or blaspheme anyone 

because I know we all need spirituality and a god-

like existence. Let's fill the cathedrals with music, art and poetry.

Christianity was a great cloak against evil in 

the Middle Ages, but there is something flawed 

about worshipping a man in a dress floating 

around in mobile when there are people 

struggling to get the mobility of a wheelchair 

and access to get them to the street corner.  

Let's bail out Christianity and save it anymore 

sex scandals or holy war embarrassments, going 

against the grain of society, we can't have 

the spirituality of today clashes with the 

spirituality of humanity tomorrow.  

I apologize if anyone is offended by these comments 

but as Tom Waits said in the song 'Get Down of the Cross', 

we need the wood to build an infrastructure that creates 

a path of access that helps people who were not building 

them and us judgmental society in a dog-eat-dog 

world.

'It is a flaw in happiness, to see beyond our bourn-it forces us in 

summer skies to mourn, it spoils the singing of the

nightingale'.

                                         John Keats

In 2005, I had a stroke that almost killed me; I spent 

a year in hospital on my back waiting for someone's 

help after my exhausting days in rehab therapy. I met 

a very caring girl on the Internet, after months of Yahooing 

by computer, I decided to go to the Philippines and meet her.

 After speaking to my son, I decided to find a little happiness 

after that rough year of waking from a stroke/coma on the brink 

of death, good food, and the warmth of a good, caring woman 

was just the ticket I needed.

Playing the journey back and forth in my head, arranging 

my friend to take me to the airport and my girl to pick me

up on the other side, I went for it. I lived with my girl, and her 

family and embraced their Philippine lifestyle so

different from ours.

I never felt a difference in language 

or skin tone. After a time, I thought they were family. I loved their 

caring attitude and even embraced their Christian way.

Every day, I had a massage and walked between two bamboo 

poles on the balcony.  

 I loved their caring attitude so much that I decided to 

stay and get married. They took me to Fort Santiago, where 

Jose Rizal was imprisoned and shot by firing squad and also to 

traditional cabins by the seaside and under a trained therapist's

care, I was buried waist-deep in therapeutical sands.

After those days of near-death experience, it felt like I was in 

heaven, I took potions and herbal remedies, I swam in natural 

springs thinking one day I would walk, I even tried to embrace 

their Christian ways, any light at the end of any tunnel was 

a good light.  

One day, we went to a beautiful cathedral; on the way in, I 

noticed it was decorated with colourful stations of the cross and 

biblical scenes, I saw every statue was covered by glass cages

like a gaming machine, and you had to put money in to light a 

candle that dropped like a jackpot.

I couldn't help but think that the church had some sort of monopoly 

on suffering, and we were paying for the right to grieve. The mass 

began, and I sat there beside my future wife. And I asked what was

happening; the massive doors were closed, and the poor people and 

beggars were locked outside; shouldn't it be the other

way around, I thought. 

Shouldn't all the well-dressed people be out and the poor people in.

I began to feel that hypocrisy rises in me, that the church had got 

it all back to front. Wasn't the church formed to help needy people, 

I felt violated and exploited. I wanted to go up in my wheelchair and

tear the robes from the upper-class priest and throw the challis

out the door, but I sat through the charade.  

The doors were opened again after communion; I asked the girl 

and all her family for their change, thinking I would put on 

the collection, but I asked to leave and was pushed out among 

the beggars and thieves, homeless and limbless people.  

Created by their corruption and hypocrisy, took all the money 

I had notes and all and threw it into the air and went home

disgusted never again to set foot in these hypocritical temples.

I Told my girl I would never be part of organized religions back to 

frontness. 

JOSE RIZAL died for this hypocrisy, and the beautiful poor

people of this beautiful land were raped and plundered. I decided

to leave this corrupt state; I couldn't live in this corruption.

My marriage has now been annulled because British immigration 

said she couldn't come here to look after me because I am disabled 

and can't work to support the manageress of a company.

British law states you can't use a D.L.A. living allowance to get some-

one into the country with more hypocrisy. Ireland is a church, but

no one tells me what to do. So much for Jose Rizal being a hero 

of the people. He lived and died by firing squad, and the church 

and state gripped the people.

All my life, I have had to live under this christ-hypocrisy that has raped

and pillaged this land, I have since been told that I'll never walk or 

talk properly, and the paralyzed side of my body has got no better.

 I might only have one hand, but I've got my poems and essays 

and paintings of spiritual energy, and I feel alive, do you? 

Now I know what Jose Rizal died for; I salute you. Let's stop this

 hypocrisy before it stops us. I miss the wonderful, caring people.