DO PARANOID ANDROIDS DREAM OF ELECTRIC DICKS?


Do Paranoid Androids Dream of Electric Dicks?

By

Louise M. Hart

A week ago…

 

I don’t know what I do

Or don’t think

My thoughts are peasants

Revolting

In a hollow pit of consciousness

Guarded

By agents of truth

 

My eyes burn like cigarettes

Concealing my tears

Like smokescreens

Before ideas

Ripped

From indiscrete tongues

 

My pain is as bespoken

As my heart

Bleeding shamefully

Into a world of words

That should remain

Unspoken

And hidden

Like the existence

Of alternate universes

 

My big mouth

Strikes

Again

And like Morrissey

On an amphetamine trip

To writer’s hell

Reading reviews of his latest book

I am swallowed by solid earth

And realise that I am still ill

 

The hospital is no longer

A movie trailer

Blade Runner is terminated

Like reels of my celestial self

Today the Sound of Melancholia

And music

Is screened throughout

My self-projected realm

 

One day, “I’ll be back”

In my delusory spacecraft

Gathering crazy diamonds

Of insight

Beneath my silly poet’s hat

 

But for now…

Whiskers on kittens

Scratch

Until I hurt

So much

I laugh

 

Never fear pain. Claim it and then, let go. Write a poem, paint a picture. Creativity sooths the soul and changes the world.

 

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And the Words Go On


And the Words Go On

By

Louise M. Hart

Welcome to my relapse

It takes the form of a serpent

Vomiting vowels and consonants

From a mouth it does not trust

Which sizzle in its throat

Like acid from a burning gut

Words that should be cast out

Like Eve’s rotten apple

To vanish into trampled earth

Like vile obstructive dust

 

I cough up narratives like phlegm

My toxic tongue vibrates with boredom

Licking gasping cracks

Where hearts should lie

A rimming echo of the mind

That cannot control it

Servant to thought’s self-destructive thrusts

 

Why does my mind beckon torment?

When all around there are none

Torment is my only friend

Constant companion in all weathers

For whilst fairer faces look away

Afraid that perceiving might lead to wrinkles

Subjectivity must always have its say

 

Thus, I shall never again rent my soul

It is better to exist alone

Than be every woman to no one every day

 

See


By

Louise M. Hart

 

Whilst I was drowning

She waved

“…you’re breaking my heart

You’re shaking my confidence

baby”

 

The birds on the breeze

Didn’t whisper my name

But the birds in the bar

Tweeted, “A pint please,

Louise”

And I answered them

With indiscreet wheezes of

“Yesss, please”

 

(Help me!)

 

I swallowed greedily

Licking windows

And clits

 

 

For whilst I was drowning

She was charming

The baby dyke

Whose fringe

Swept me off my feet

Like gold dust

From her plump eyelashes

 

She was a whole number

To my oddness

 

Whilst I was drowning

She waved

Right out to sea

Until it took her

As I had not-

She who had washed

Her hands of me

Many years before

 

…and me

 

…always remembering

The lingering scent of her fingers

On shifting sands

Of my receding memory strands

And pubic hair

Viewed furtively on demand

 

20 years on

She drowned

Whilst I wobbled

Elephantine

On land

Dry and firm

 

She had drowned

Whilst I was waving

 

Except Yourself


Except Yourself

I travelled north to learn how to be free

But the shrieking gulls delivered my spirit

To Nemo’s tomb

Buried beneath 20,000 leagues of despair

Under a doom sated sea

A fisher of souls, swept to her watery demise

By waves that tempted my mind

And stung my weary eyes

Lapping the frail shore of my bored

Consciousness

I roared from the depths

Of my soul’s new found distress

And swallowed the sea water’s acrid foam

Like a fleet of melting acid ice cream cones

My thoughts nourished by the taste of its cool duplicity

Being caught between the to and fro

Of my unique soul’s existence and human homogeneity

I had become invisible, both on land and sea

Like a single splash of water on a pier-less shore

Depositing no residue of my life or piteous form

One day, I stepped into troubled waters

Where I witnessed rising from his/her liquid bed

Like Poseidon’s changeling son/daughter

The angel of the north

Who spoke to me, “It’s not so bad, up here, with the haggis

And the local beer

Better rain upon a sunny head

Than sun shining beyond a mind

That is dull as lead”

“Like mine,” I screamed

“It is not your home location,” S/he equivocated

“Inducing your mental rot

Your soul is sick

For existence has failed to offer you a role

In this season’s production

Of the dominant model

Of the anti-social whole

This is not how life should be…

This is not how life should be”

Angel of truth

Lancelot, inhabiting a nautical incarnation

Of Avalon, for the kilted generation

Riding against the tide, with limbs of lace and leather

Your presence warmed my heart

Like rays of sun in wintry weather

Words slid from your tongue

Like a gentle elixir

I drank them slowly

And let them fix me

In 2008 I moved from the West Midlands to Scotland. In 2014 I returned home, where the air is more polluted but I learned to breathe, again.

*Except Yourself was originally posted on ArtiPeeps.com.Thank you, Nicky Mortlock for permitting me to republish it, here.

I am…not that into me, either


I am Van Gogh’s emasculated ear

Severed to diminish feeling I died before I became real

Comprised of stories no one wants to hear

And rendered out of print, like an old fashioned picture book

Disproportionate in words and imagery

When I speak, the herd turns its heedless back

I blame them not, for my voice sounds sweeter when gagged

By those who hear only sounds

Transcribed by waves that are fluid, loud and clear

Shedding emotions, like translucent onion peel

I try to moo aloud

But no one answers back

Thus, as I sit alone in a crowd of crushing pain and fear

I raise my hands to my head

But find that it has disappeared

This poem was inspired by circumstances I experienced only yesterday. I joined a writers group because I wanted to improve my writing. But, when I sat passively listening to the group’s critique of one of my poems, I realised that I perceived my writing as not a projection of my consciousness, but as myself in a textual form. Thus, whilst I fully accepted, even welcomed, feedback about my use of language and how engaging they found the poem, I felt crushed when the critique disintegrated into an attack on the ideology and thought processes behind the poem. In a sudden revelatory flash, I realised that it matters not whether my writing is, “good” or, “bad.” I write for myself and if other people like it, I am blessed. To what extent the critique constituted a personal attack on me, I do not know. But, it saddens me to think a group formed to encourage people to write, should conduct itself in such a manner. If this situation had happened to some one else, I would have felt the same. I shall not go back to the group, but I shall always write.

Taking back the Power


I am every colour of the rainbow and many shades in between. I own no label, no label owns me. A diagnostic homo Sapien, my bipolar is not me. I am not disabled, though my condition can be disabling. The rollercoaster is a metaphor I narrate in the blank verse of my behaviour, the discourse of my thought’s disorder and my textual laughs and screams. Bipolar is a creative sickness. Psychiatry is a symptom of an intellectual disease

Moods


If my psychosis was a colour
It would be purple.

Screaming violet dreams of pain and pleasure
Obscene
Streams of consciousness
That never
Surface beyond my mind.
How I treasure
My own emotional extremes.

Until I am brought down by
Brown and green
Moods of the lower order
Servants of disordered
Rationality and boredom.

Joy and misery define life
But purple defines me.