UNEMOTIONAL ENGINEERING

For Lapwing-Lagan thanx for all your hope.

 

 A fox thought lives locked in me, I want to be 

positive but I can't summon up the spirit of the fox

on Bodhran beat, my rhythmic sense is gone. Back

then in the other world when I saw the fox in nature

it flipped my mindset from war to peace. 

It made me see all the world was not at war, I knew 

nothing else but bombs and bullets. I saw life from 

another perspective it wasn't just that eureka moment 

but that was the evolution of A Fox thought. A street kid 

to become a published writer it all stem cell from that.

Shame I don't remember but I know the magic people 

and places just can't visualize pen-see. I want to relive 

that magic moment but I don't remember. Lately, I can't 

find the positivity to turn my muck into gold. 

This is my study of my pessimism, I am not writing 

to depress you. I have nothing else to say but tell you 

the dog's honest truth, my life is a suffering fucking hell. 

Nietzche like me took a stroke at 45, he has my will

to power.

I live outside humanity looking in.  

All my body sensation has gone and left me impotent in 

mental capacity. To think once 

a creative writing tutor now my 

mind is blank-black.

 

I can’t even use a touchscreen phone or iPad there is

no sensation in my fingertip that I can’t put my 

finger on. I live in a dis-able bubble that imploded like

a hadron collider reaction. No one out there seems 

to know me or care to know myself and I. Don’t even 

know myself. I am 1,2,3 persons with no past or future tense.

 

Creating pomes of moment us pomements without memory.

For twenty years I have searched for positivity through Taoism-

 shamanic-active nihilism, individuation and I can't find hope 

these words are my only hope from my blemished acceptance.

 Even Alan Watts wisdom (my hero) a backward law is back-

wards. 

I live without substance I create my own substance.

half of my body is paralyzed impotent mind and body even 

the spirit of the fox is lost locked in. I want to be positive 

but I can't summon up the spirit of the fox in a Bodhran beat. 

My rhythmic sham-manic sense is gone. Back then in the other 

life when I saw the fox in nature.

 

It flipped my mindset from war to peace, made me see 

all the world was not at war. I knew nothing else but bombs 

and bullets I saw life from another perspective.

 

It wasn't just a eureka moment but that was the start 

of A Fox thought evolution. A Republican street kid 

to a degree published writer. i must have saw felt some-

thing i will never know.

 

I want to relive that magic moment butI don't remember. 

Lately, I can't find the positivity to turn my muck into gold. 

 Seems like a sham-manic symbol. I dont remember 

I don’t recall I got no memory of anything at all. 

                                                                 Peter Gabriel.

 

Music, sports and film do nothing, I have lost 

my competitive edge my sense of humor I don’t 

know what else to do, all I know is poe-artry.

I am compelled to write this down-up. I don’t 

even remember my family no emotional

 engineering like a child in an adult body. 

Impoetent living bed-bound constipation, prescribed 

an enema each week, and pissed myself every day.

Three blue stripes of fentanyl patch on my shoulder 

and liquid morphine every four hours for a broken body 

and mind. That's been through war shell-shock-man-

shell. As if I hold rank in my unadopted kingdom.

I know I have said some of this but I'll do it again 

until the day die. I want to be remembered not as aphasia-

aphantasia mumbling paralyzed fool with no memory 

or the ability to cling on. I don’t hibernate from life 

it hibernates from me. In-humanity in humanity 

purposeless purpose. Dogrell Cynism.

  

 

 

 

A FOX THOUGHT

For Ted Hughes

 

I imagine a landscape of your poems:

A sacred wood, a pagan burial ground

Where the eyes of wildlife blood red

devour prey.  Surrounded by darkness

of gothic tales.  Cold moons fall on

a perpetual November sky.

 

Winter soil on your chalk white flesh

Deep in the womb of your savage earth.

 

The nonchalant delight of you toil, free

from the vulva noose.  That something

else is alive unseen, black velvet feathers

oiled in crude sway within black rainbows

And peck your birds-eye tomb vision.

 

Rain from a broken gutter spout, your poems

Gush with cold delight, the purification

Of a stagnant well.

THE BIRDS BEE’S TREES IN ME

 

The trees are within me

They sway, bend and bow.

I am like the evergreen leaf

That climbs so dark in green

On blue and grey that fills

My day with light and dark

And light, it fills my day with

Things to say that roll off

 of my tongue.

 

I am but a stinging fly that

Leaves it mark on life.  I’ll

Scar your heart and hurt

Your head in these words

That I say.  You will search

Your mind while the world

Winds me astray.  The birds

 

Fly into the wind but blows

Back to bend and bow, the world

Winds and lets us know, soon we

Will find its purpose will be beneath

 the trees standing firm to grow.

The black and white bird

Sat on the roof, preening

In a melancholic nonchalance

Just being black and white.

 

The people in the house

Were up and down, the teen-

Age girl was praying to a re-

Flection in the mirror, the dad

Seen himself on the news.

 

The bird flew away into empty sky

 

This pome cuts through language

Like a high dose antidepressant.

There is no such thing as depression

Just a depressed life.  What do you do

If you’re done, a shell without memory

No thing to cling on to, how do you be-

Come a cling on if your mind is full

Of emptiness.

ANOTHER FOX THOUGHT

 

The fox has appeared in my poe-art

since I was a boy. At first I thought

Nothing 0f it just an animal symbol un

Til I checked how often it appeared.

 

A bodhran beat rhythm of Sionnach on

Animal-skin. Why can’t these pagan rites

Of passage be not the blood begets blood. 

No more sacrificial-cruici-fiction enough 

blood has been spilt.

 

The hot stink of fox flows down from

the thought fox into this naturally. We

are from two different worlds. We both

see the view of pig bloodletting

 

Blow your horn to summon the chase.

The fox is drove onto city street 

scavenging our fast food scraps.

This is a sham-manic state.

 

Drifted off thinking last line and woke up

in a vague haze of poetry.


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
 

        I wrote this listening to your talk on morphic resonance.

MORPHIC REMEMBRANCE

For Rupert

 

Morphic resonance rolls off my tongue.

I saw the words water falling from

Form canals of the write hemisphere.

 

I cant conjure up images, no minds eye.

The stroke brain injury created aphan-

Tasia, black behind my eyes. Memories

from thirty years ago wave and weave

of my tongue like it were yesterday.

I remember moment us pomements.

 

 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 repetitive repeats, my morphic field.

 

Fernando Pessoa wrote in the book dream

of being alive, Its not necessary just to live

but to feel. I feel pomes without memory

a past or present emotional engineering.

I might be disabled but feel aphantasic.

 WASTELAND

Between Etna wasteland and Jamaica street

I looked on listening to police messages. An

A.P.B. went out for the lady in red, carrying

An arm-elite rifle that killed a man. My dad

Told me to burn the coat my sister's pride

And joy. This was the early 70’s so you do

What you were told, sitting by the dormer

Window I don’t know what I felt, now. What

A wasteland, trying to remember something

Without emotional engineering. My dad/sister

are dead now, he's up on the ulcerated ulster hills.

She is laying low in lylo, this is my all-points bullet-

In, all for the plot of land 6x3. We can't even find his

 Plot, did they die for Ulster? Religion what a waste

all in gods name. I hope this signal reaches you. Not

green or orange but pure peace, who will listen to

pagan poetry. There is only a one-way street, you can't

get it down without crying.

 

 

 This is a collection of comments holo-

graphic memory. I can't 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 and Pessoa are a few. I don't 

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

the vibration of life helped me live with a broken mind, 

to accept my broken imperfection and make my words 

for me alone flow.

They are on to something dealing with literature

and scientific fact. I used to write about 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 and sit down on my throne

Wheelchair. These great men gave me the write

Hemisphere. Marguerite Dumass wrote on her

Studies on melancholy: 

When you find yourself 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. 

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 comments for the moment. I don't have any emotional

 engineering, so past and present don't exist in my world.

I don't even know if my children were born in childhood or 20 

years of marriage, but my pomes are vehicles of holo--

graphic memory, attempted suicide twice, and left

to deal with my own suicidal tendencies. Even the mental

health couldn't tell  they hadn't a clue about aphantasia

even G.P. had never heard of it, and it was diagnosed 

in 1508.

 

I found out on YouTube from a guy who attempted

Suicide twice. He couldn't picture his dead mother

in his broken mind

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

Way through, and it's been Aphantastic, I am dignified

disabled.

 

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 brainpower to

Teach creative writing. Fernando Pessoa wrote in

The dream of being alive it's not necessary just to

Live but to feel that's good enough for me.

 MORPHOGENETIC POETRY

For Shawn

 

Morphogenetic poetry forms in a formless mind,

 morphic resonance. Life remembers life, nature's

 memory. On the rugged north head of Kerry. I tried

 to grasp the rock face, but the unpredictable waves swept me into a whirlpool.

 

Down and down, it sucked me under. Being

a Piscen I have a strange love of water. 

I stopped struggling and got lost in the mighty

 surge.

Just when I gave up, it threw me back up 

to cling onto the shore like birth itself.

 

It took me like the tornado's vortex, lost

in its flow state. The Earth's gravitational pull

 

Threw me out to live another day, the brutal 

tender touch. Keat's words held in the magic- 

hand of chance, not mine. This occurred thirty years ago; I threw it up to roll off my tongue like that wave yesterday.

 

My friend Shawn listens to me go off on

a tangent, and this stream flowed. Shows

How much I have recovered through

writing my blog with thousands of pictures

To flick my memory of hopeless hope.

 

The way this pome moves memory is like

In a morphic resonance, the body must hold

Muscle memory to throw this up. It must be

like an effortless effort, the backward law.

 

You can't beat the truth, sayer; my broken

mind can't lie. There is no past or present

tense, just now and now. It is on my memory

blog, on the right hemisphere. I don't get images

, but I know Foxyoxy was there.

 

CRYPT-TO-CHROME-CHIMPANZEE POETRY.

 A FOX THOUGHT

1.

Accidentally on-purpose poetry.

I have written of this moment by

The half door dozens of times.

I know I will never get to the point

 Without emotional engineering.

 

I know my mind is broken but I

Am compelled to get to that magic

Moment, spiritus mundi as W.B.

Yeats wrote.

 

My Da went on the run bailed out-

one of the longest detainees in Ireland,

nine months. My mum said I was a wild

child would die on these streets she knew

me like no other, she saved my life.

 

Watching nature like never before.

Born and brought up in an inner city 

London-Belfast. A red glow dawning

a fox skulked out of Kavanagh's ditch.

 

A cottage in Hackballscross two rooms

without light, running water or electricity

but it changed my mindset. I stood there

at a magic dawn and watched a fox glare

back into me.

 

Dream like I stood at the half door

and realized that not the whole world

was not at war. A republican child who knew

nothing but war.

 

 It stood and walked on like the fox

in Ted Hughes poem the thought fox.

A Fox looking at a fox like a mirror image

of my inner being my heart raced.

 

 

That fox gave me something I couldn’t see

A wonder of beauty in a red glowing ditch

The cottage became my freedom winds.

A fox appearing in my poe-art like a shamanic

seal of wonder for a pagan poet.

 

When my father died I learned the cottage

was owned by the I.R.A. to run guns across

the border, he couldn’t look me in the eye.

We loved to hate each other, hardly ever spoke.

 

Mucker the townland of Patrick Kavanagh

was just a stone’s throw away.

 

 

 ZOETROPE THE WRITE HEMISPHERE

 

My left brain was wiped clean

45 years of memory loss child-

Hood, children, marriage. I

Can't wrap my broken mind

My brain injury caused

Aphantasia. No mind's eye.

 

I don’t have a cling-on to memory

I cant grasp my dead mother's image.

It's just black behind my eyes to make

Up for memory loss, I write this blog

Each day but it won't give me emotional

Engineering.  

 

This world is so strange like

the Raymond Carver poem

locked-in looking out, the opposite.

I cannot put my finger on things

This Pomement has something

Missing I can't remember to forget.

ACT 1.

POMEMENT

 

Pen-see, reflect my mother's humanity.

My pomes are fact-based they move

at a default slow-motion trying to grasp

the pomement.

 

I couldn’t visualize my dead mother’s face

Locked-in behind my black eyes, no minds

Eye aphantasia,

 

I wheelchaired one hand paralyzed tidied

up my clutter, it takes two hours that would

 take you ten minutes. I picked up a cup of

my mothers cremated ashes how can keep 

them I asked myself?

 

Put in some water mixed to a marrow/paste 

put it on a canvas board 12x12 smudged it

around watched it for hours congeal and painted 

what I felt but could not see.  

Each stroke revealed her hurt inside insight 

warts and all she lives in my truth appearing 

beyond my father’s hurt in her expressive 

emerald eyes. 

                               What a cunt!