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

 

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There is a Light that will never come on


By

Louise M. Hart

 

The lights are on

But there’s no one home

He stares into deep mid air

And nobody would guess

That his mind contains

More colour and depth

Than the pint of beer

His tight lips slowly sip

In honour of the woman

He did not know

 

He cannot even remember

When he was diagnosed

Or how many times

He has been hospitalised

His eyes conceal the vibrancy

Of his near death urgency

And are blank with certainty

That life on earth

Is bloody hell

 

Emotional emptiness

Is his real disease

Not paranoid schizophrenia

He is the shadow

Of the former selves

He wishes that he had never been

 

If you should see him

Buried in the darkness

Of a Glasgow bar

Please say, “Hello”

He needs a friend

For he let this one go

 

Pretty Boys make Graves


I want to laff

When you forget to say

After

Not arfter

You poor middle class barstard

Of course, you are better than me-

You are pretty, young and male

You speak to me kindly

But your eyes never meet mine

Are you afraid that I might perceive

Your crystal blue lies

Or, perhaps, you fear infection

From the wounds I wear

Outside?

I may be the self proclaimed sooth slayer

Of all unnatural disasters

But your inauthenticity makes me smile

Hope someone sweeps you up

From the ground

Like surplus dust, when you fall

From facade’s hand

Mister-know-it-all

Who knows not

Himself

The Nurse


I saw you wrap your cardigan

Around your hips

And wanted to be that cardigan

Binding your hips

My hands reaching for the comforting

Curves

Of your effervescent flesh

 

Playing love tunes

With strands of your hair

As it swept against

The rise and fall

Of your comely breasts

My skin warmed by the scent

Of your measured breaths

And your image strained

Inside

My cavernous thoughts

Like my hand on your flesh

 

I wanted to be

The last word on your tongue

Before you slept

Instead

You opened

Not your cardigan

Legs

But your mouth

And prescribed me a thousand milligrams

Of anti-madness

And an appointment with Dr Hart

Of darkest Ayrshire and Arran

In the first Gaelic Autumn

Of my Anglo –Saxon soul

And spiritual sickness

 

Live Life as Art


“LIVE in celebration of the pain that makes you

And break the ties that bind you to your melancholic nature”

My daemon bride cried aloud

Devoid of a soul I comprised mere flesh and bones

Exhumed from a tomb of my own making

My heart a perpetual beat away from death’s sweet eternity

My mind rendered blank with the noise of my interior distress

And echoes of duality

“Enter me! Enter me! I offer you redemption from the cursory LIFE”

The daemon’s eyes glowed like the embers of her inky black insides

I looked into her eyes and entered AS a nervous youth

Nakedly vulnerable in translucent skin

And searching for my unique and authentic

Poetic voice

On that night I made love with a daemon and found my mortal soul

Projecting my consciousness in the imprints I created

On the heart of human hatred

And the tarnished soil of materiality

“Enlightenment is the capacity to transcend reality,” she claimed

“And live life as (thou) art”

(Meant to be)

Poetry is not the province of academia; it is the voice of the soul. Listen to the bitter-sweet sounds it enunciates.

Speaking about mental health and recovery, Jan 14 1-3 p.m. 2015


I am giving a FREE TALK about mental health and recovery on Jan 14th 1-3 p.m.

If you are interested in non-medical approaches to mental health/illness or my journey from mental health service user to published writer you are welcome to attend.

The talk is taking place at:

The Thrive Centre

5th Floor, Coventry Point

Market Way

Coventry

To book a place (places can be pre-booked only)  please email marionaslan@aol.com  or  sarah.shelton1@gmail.com

Tele Marion: 0793 4675237

For more details visit http://www.elementalwellbeing.org

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