Wednesday, 18 November 2015

Woman with Two Elbows


I ended up from random scribbles thinking Olympia and Venus of Urbino, but even more shameless.

Wednesday, 11 November 2015

9^3

Ennead to the Power of Three. - Broadfield Garden, 10th/11/2015

(i)

Such anger demolishes my soul
I cannot find my way through Dante's forest:
the tokens we exchanged of tendency

are now quite inhumed in the distant past -
Archimede's soft bath-suds overflow again
eureka! - but we only have to miracle

our desperate situation, love,
there is a peace and gentleness to find,
without the two of us misplacing mind.

(ii)

Give me yourself: you did once long before,
forget the past ~ our fates were matched before
we argued that first time, that second, third,

our might and meeting of our matchless minds
unparelleled in our intensity ~
come home my love, come home to my soft heart.

Or don't. If no way you can you see to set
me free, then make it brief and brutally
effective. Love me or just let me be.

(iii)

I gave a bench to some carousers,
they did decline but then relented.
To give the tricks of kindness takes some front.

And yes, I am quite capable of being
a cunt ~ that lovely word, your aureoles,
scar-tissues, so, so, strange, I miss with all

my heart and tongue and cock and touch and taste,
I still desire you more than words depict:
be gentle, loving. Have ruth for this twit.

Pathos and Ramblings and Suicide

What do I want? To be with my lover who has declared herself not my lover. Oh it hurts, my gods it hurts, because all I want to do I is make things right, The bodies age, and the minds age too. But what are we to do? It seems senseless to give up at this time. A year of shit and pain, events outside our ken. Just dreadful in every sense. Suicide. Death. Two family members. It has broken us I think. I am still trying, but it seems so futile. Never such love and innocence again.

My black dog. Or as I prefer, my black beast. Psychiatrists and community psychiatric nurses tend to ask very banal questions, such as: “Can you identify your trigger points?” Well, the short answer is no. When the real and deadly fit comes upon me, it is always without warning, often with no aggravating circumstances. It is as if a black cloud exhales from my being – a me – not me – that solidifies and ossifies like a black beast that encases me. The real me shrinks to the size of a guttering night-light flame. The black beast has all the power, and the glimmer of me can do nothing but protest in a tiny voice.

Thankfully this has only taken me over fully twice in my life, in 2007 and 2008. It has partially tried a handful of times since, but I am canny. Last Thursday it turned up big-time. The black beast cares not for the consequences of your children findng you hanging or stabbed through the heart.

I took every variety of pill I had, and for the first time I called the Samaritans. She was wonderful. And so many friends have reached out and sent their love on facebook, so I suppose that spying, advertising, watching, habit-logger has some positive value.

Things improved gradually over the next few days. I'm still in a hole. But I'm not drowning. And the Samaritans got £20.

Monday, 26 October 2015

How We Have Have Changed.

I was born in 1971. That might seem a long time ago to some of my non-existent readers. But when I was growing up, from the grotty junction of Barton Street in Gloucester, to Maescourt on Upton Lane, to Tivoli Road in Cheltenham, to Dagmar Road in the same town, we all knew our neighbours.

I was talking about this to my lover a few minutes ago. The 70s and 80s were profoundly different to now. I remembered Mrs Uzzell. She lived next door. I haven't thought of her for at least ten years if I'm honest. But remembering her, and how she used to make sure we all had treats from her hand, her face was summoned from a thirty year old filing cabinet, and I saw her again.

The 70s were a joy. Call me out on childhood if you must, but it was a time when to survive only one parent had to work, The 80s were harder. 90s... 00s were good for me because I had a successful business. But this decade has been a stinking pile of tory shite.

It seems to be getting worse. Every year, every decade. It is not just me getting older and more jaundiced, losing hope, angrier by the week. I just urge you all to fight for fairness in our society.

Saturday, 24 October 2015

So What Has Been Up?

Long time I know, non-existent audience. But even if I have to write into the void, then so be it. I shall go in reverse order.

Communicated with my parents today. That's always a healthy sign. Yesterday I got persuaded by my delightful Hungarian/Bulgarian shrink to attempt the Lamotrigine. Another one to eventually tick off as useless, but let no-one say I don't have an open mind. Been a grim couple of weeks, due to the anniversary of a family death. Went on the TUC/Peoples' Assembly march in Manchester. A pleasant day out, and no misbehaviour witnessed. Passed my WCA. I might have posted about that before.

Well, that's that. How am I? And more importantly, how are you all, if there are any of you left? Myself: well I mistrust the Autumn, season of mists and mixed states. Can never tell if I'm down or up to be honest. But like comb-teeth, it all evens out into a straight line. Worry about others more than myself.

Am I doing anything? No, not really. Have a hankering to write *that* book about the subjective experience of madness. After all, it's mostly written. Just a hell of an editing job.

What do I want from the future? Love, peace, security, happiness. Ha.

See? I have nothing to say of import. Fuck the Tories. Bless you all. Dx

Tuesday, 6 October 2015

Pick Up Your Bed and Work


Some brief thoughts on the Tory Party Conference, the TUC/Peoples' Assembly March, and finally, some views on the Labour Party Leadership Election, and where things might be going next. Plus, a postscript on my experience of the WCA last month.

i. Tories. 

So all the vile, vicious, decrepit marrionettes have been spewing their bile and bigotry across the stage and the airwaves these last two days. And we still have Dave-I-Fucked-a-Pig-Cameron to come. We've had the Satanic Robot, gimp-suited and coke-addled, lying his brazen teeth off left, right and centre. We've had Grendel's Mother rise up from her lakebed lair, vomiting prejudice and stoking hatred against desperate refugees. We've had the Blond Beast, grunting and whinnying his tired tropes, his lazy jokes, and his pathetic homoerotic rugger-bugger metaphors for his ideal Britain. And now we've had the Arch-Fiend, Mahu-Modo, Nosferatu, the Ghoul, the Blood-Sucking-Jumped-Up Reinhard Heydrich, spitting on the tears and pain of the protesters, threatening to do the same but much, much more, congratulating himself on all his incompetent, flawed and evil policies: policies that have caused innumerable deaths. Oh, and I forgot Jeremy-That-Part-Of-a-Woman is too beautiful a word to grace him with... we should all work as hard as the Chinese. Suicide nets on the factories, anyone? Not to mention Liam-Slash-Pensions-Now-Fox, do away with the Winter Fuel Allowance and the Bus Pass, because the poor old dears will either be dead at the next or election, or so gaga they won't remember who made their lives a misery. (Excuse me one moment while I go outside and shriek at the uncaring skies.) The fact these miserable pieces of shit exist and haven't been struck down by lightning is certainly a compelling argument for atheism.

ii) Manchester March. 

It was a very amiable affair, despite what you may have read in the papers. One hundred thousand people walking through central Manchester, and one arrest for spitting, and three others for drunk and disorderly. Listen: how many arrests for D&D does central Manchester get on a normal Sunday afternoon? More, I'd warrant. Anyway, around 0.002% of people connected with the march were naughty. That means 99.998% were not naughty. And the egg-incident has to be, it must be said, viewed with some dubiety. Quite easy to slur the opposition by staging a scene. The weather was perfect, and the atmosphere electric. I felt very proud of the great variety of my fellow citizens.

iii) Labour Leadership.

I was involved before Our Saviour got on the ballot. I was in two minds: if it worked, and by a miracle we can change the country's attitude by 2020, then all well and good; if 2020 ends in defeat, we shall at least have wrenched the debate to the left.

We all know how its panned out so far. It's been quite fascinating to see the support Jeremy gets wherever he goes. Now it's time for some hard-nosed policy-making, and I would be the first to agree that there will have to be some sacrifices.

But I wondered the other day about an underlying strategy from the Left - one that I do indeed approve of - a strategy I might hesitantly call the Road to Calvary. Perhaps Corbyn is just setting an example for the Left (especially the young and enthusiastic new left). Perhaps he is intent on proving that democracy and reason and politeness and turning-the-other-cheek will fail against the entrenched vested interests of Capital, and that the inevitable disillusionment of all these newly enthused members might lead another step on the way towards revolutionary change. But this is just a wild theory.

iv) Postscript.

The image at the beginning of this post came to me, sweating, in the middle of the night following my Work Capability Assessment. I ordered the extra props there and then. Because being raped up the arse is a fair analogy to the entirety of the whole disgusting process.

I had expected that I would cope well, knowing my ability to project an air of false confidence. But I was wrong. I almost vomited with anxiety on the train, in the assessment room, and on the pavement outside the DWP office. Tears were shed by both myself and my companion.

This is the rub: to try every day to feel 'well', I try to believe I am well, to accentuate every positive aspect of coping with this foul and wayward brain. These assessments force your entire consciousness onto all your negative aspects, and lo and behold, studying yourself though that dark and pessimistic glass has a deleterious effect on your sense of health and capability. It forces you to see how shit you are at many things. It makes you want to extinguish yourself in despair at your own shortcomings.

However, I passed. A bitter moment of ironic self-congratulation.

Wednesday, 22 July 2015

Whither Now, Labour?

Whither Now, Labour?

The media is getting its little panties in a right twist. Jeremy Corbyn has, utterly unsurprisingly, taken a strong lead in the leadership election. Why are all of the usual suspects so flabbergasted?

Well, for starters, they do not listen to the membership, neither the electorate. The myth that Ed Miliband was too far left seems to have filled their brainpans to the point that they cannot see the actual evidence before them. Ed Miliband was not half left enough. So many people I have spoken to over the course of this year have all said the same thing: give us a proper Labour Party back.

Many have jumped ship to the Greens, UKIP, TUSC, and last but not least, Plaid and the SNP. Many of them won't be coming back. But a lot of them will, given a practicable choice. And there are all of those people who have not voted since Blair, of which I was one until this year. And there are all of those young people who have been royally screwed by Osborne's Budget.

Why am I supporting Corbyn?

I'm sick of soundbites, focus groups, and safety-first wonkery.

I'm sick of the Labour Party being apologists for neo-liberalist finance.

I'm sick of seeing our, the peoples', shared wealth and heritage being sold off and then the poorest being asked to foot the bill.

I'm sick of our debate becoming so narrow and dumbed-down that no alternative seems possible.

I'm sick of the attacks to our education system, from the raw deal today's children face to the annihilation of adult learning.

I'm sick of the piecemeal privatisation of all our national assetts, through out-sourcing, contracting, PFI... These things belong to US.

And above all, I'm sick of inequality deepening every year.

The press and the media will spend the next five years attempting to convince us that socialism cannot win. We have to be ready for that, to fight it, to support and convince our fellow citizens, to bloody well get out there, rally the people and VOTE.