Laughter and tears


Those who favour the companionship of beer

To the solitude of a book

Combine both and you will never need another fuck.

For synthesising words and taste

Edifies the soul and illuminates the face

Like a flush of a rush of  “how’s your Father”

With openings concealed and bedroom doors shut.

(A piece of nonsense, written at 12:00 last night)


If death were rain

It would fall on me

If death were sea

It would swallow me

If death were doves

They would fly with me

Death and the rain and the sea…

If death were true

It would release me

…And the doves

(Written a long time ago, when I was not feeling very happy)

Laughter and tears promote healing. If you do not feel, seek help.

Rage against the dying of the light

Observing the prevalence of spiritual beliefs/practice amongst people diagnosed with psychosis, I have often questioned the legitimacy of believing that these kinds of ideas are symptomatic of illness, rather than a consequence of valid perceptions. For, my own empirical observations indicate that, far for from being delusional, these ideas have a reality base and, in some instances, actually challenge preconceived notions about the dominant model of consensual reality.

Wishing not to appear too anti-psychiatry in my approach, my views emanate, largely, from observations of and relationships with people with mental health issues. Having witnessed the concrete manifestations of ideas, formerly labelled delusional, in the form of observable occurrences of events in the social realm, I believe that these manifestations cannot always be attributed to coincidence. For, the effects of doing this are two-fold; not only does it undermine the validity of the experiences of those labelled, “mentally ill,” but it naturalises the prevailing politico-philosophic framework, based on the principle that social reality is governed by the forces of science and reason.

Whilst I, myself, have found it difficult to reconcile my interest in spirituality with my political views, even, in the darkest hours of my despair, I have always seen a glimmer of light which, unlike others I have known, has prevented my gentle passage into the night. The existence of light is more important than its etiology.

I think I shall stay in bed and analyse the thoughts which fester in my head. If I am not part of the cure, I am the cause.

“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction”- Virginia Woolf.

“I am a walking indictment of a system which turns angels into daemons.”- Louise M. Hart

January 2001. I am a inpatient at the local psychiatric unit. My psychiatrist has informed me that he is to section me under the Mental Health Act. Awaiting the arrival of my G.P. and a social worker, I sit outside the office in which the “professionals” gradually congregate…

They think they know me; the ones with the phoney smiles and the power to destroy. But, I know them. I see them, when the lights go out and they oil their slimey skins with the gratuitidousness of self-affirmation and thoughts of sin. I see them behind office doors making love to themselves, prior to withdrawal into the realm of records and notes. They think they know me, for they wear text books in their eyes. But, I know them, because I am self-defined.

The living essence, of the presence that was Virginia Woolf. In here, I cannot access my State benefits and have no room in which to write. Rather, I inhabit a dormitory for the terminally bored. 

And never bored, my thoughts are my friends; they visit day and night, never departing, even, when I try to shut them out…I am alive and proud. See the pain in my face and hear me think aloud.

I am a writer and poet. For twenty years I have been affected by bipolar disorder, wasting my life, for the first ten of those years, as a revolving door patient in psychiatric institutions. I have always written. Then I was published and chose life.