What became of Mary-Jane?
She took drugs to ease the pain
But it wasn’t the drugs
That damaged her brain
It was life
That drove her insane
BY
Louise M Hart
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What became of Mary-Jane?
She took drugs to ease the pain
But it wasn’t the drugs
That damaged her brain
It was life
That drove her insane
BY
Louise M Hart
Coventry blood, Brummy heart
You have made me
There is no one on earth who can save me
And no State machine will enslave me
The train brought me here
Poetry and beer
Made me freer
Birmingham you are as queer
As the poem I once wrote
About all the girls I have never loved
Before…
When I was a childe
I walked as a childe
(Harold died for Maude
I live to die)
Around the City Centre
The bright lights called me
The shops, the shops, the shops
Enticed me through their doors
Adorning fleshy architecture
I tried not to bore
With my prosaic presence
Brummy women and men
Who were so much prettier
Their conversation far wittier
Than her indoors, aka, Cov(en)tary
Coventry blood, Brummy heart
You have untamed me
But no one can persuade me
That I am amazing
So I amazed me
And read my bloody awful poetry
In pubs and cafes for free
Whilst the audiences shouted for Jasmine Gardosi
By
Louise M. Hart
Your body betrays you
It is a ghost of its former self
A crumpled hand
Caresses a toiled brow
Not long now
Not long now
But, you are a warrior
The bearer of two
You have watched men
Come and go
Infants and oafs, in skin
Thinner than the curve of your lips
Narrower and shallower lives
Than the hips that bore me well
Mother, I love you so
I am joyous in your presence
I laugh and cry in equal measures
In bursts of simultaneous ebbs and flows of emotion
That sooth and reveal how I feel about you
You fill my days with thoughts
Rich and deep
Invade my dreams
Whilst in the froes of sleep
Mother, you made me
So, now, I shall make you
Immortal
In words that rhyme eternal, wondrous and true
By Louise M. Hart
Don’t look at me
Don’t-look-at-me
Does my face threaten your subjectivity
Or put you off your cup of tea?
I took my tablets today
So now I’m symptom free
What do you see…
When you meet my glare?
I pull out my hair
And worry that you can see my scaly skin
Through the tear
In my jeans or smell my underwear
I pretend not to care
But I am crucified inside
Like Jesus Christ mounted on a cross of mind
After forty days and forty nights in the wilderness
Of my turbulent mental flight
Like squabbling lovers my thoughts scream and shout
I try to quieten them
In case you can hear
But you laugh in fear
Don’t look at me
Don’t-look-at-me
I look at you
And suddenly remember that you are only three
I read the news, today
Glasgow writer killed
By the hand
That did not feed him
A suicide statistic
Soon to be forgotten
Like the books
He laboured hard to write
Which no one cares to read
And sitting outside Wetherspoons
Alongside my companionable
Cigarettes and alcohol
I contemplate
The minister of The State
Who one day
Will withdraw
My disability living allowance
Because I can crawl
More than 2 metres
And write
Bloody awful poetry
I am the common word
More Smith
Than Plath
Pretentious enough
To be proud
To be working class
And, suddenly, life seems…
…like perpetual misery
And I become the future statistic
I do not want to be
Meanwhile…
Occupying his inflaming
Twin towers of ivory
Plated over-privilege
And steely mouthed
Prosthetic political power
The star player
In Cameron’s corrupted cabinet
Of party members
Porn players, all
And secretarial back (side)
Slappers
A stabber
Of the foulest form
Opens his whoring mouth
And laughs
Like Lucifer on crack
His Machiavellian throat
Issues sound that even Tony
Bastard bliar, bliar
After dinner speaker tones for hire
Cannot rival
Like a converse Jon Snow
Turned to Tory slush
He is the illegitimate
Legitimate product
Of an ideological game
Of thrones
And human slaughter
United Kingdom
Lock up your sick and disabled
Sons and daughters
Iain Duncan Smith
Is on the hunt
Pheasant is so last season’s
Prey
New labour’s elected
Sunday lunch
Human flesh
Is more appetising
These post-imperialistic
McSalad and fries days
With I.D.S. on my mind
I board the bus home
Grateful to still have money
In my pocket
And no student payback loan
But when I arrive home
I open the door
And staring back at me
From a crimson mat
Is a letter
Marked
Department of Work and Pensions
I take out a blade
And with a frenzied slash
The sullied brown envelop
Bleeds ink
Red as the gash
Adorning my wrist
I tear myself to pieces
Then I light a cigarette
Between
Slices
Of my orange peel fingers tips
Ode to the death of another
Benefit scrounger
Homage to the demise
Of a seated disco dancer
And an inverted snob
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.
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
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
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
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.