Fucked up

I wish that I could shut up

Should be in a lock up

Decay of mind and spirit

Not quite with it

 

I am the portal to insanity

For my mind is my only true reality

But my heart is almost free

 

So lay your head on my chest

And listen to the beat,

Beat, beat me

Into a pulp rhapsody

Of thoughts

Which broadcast from me

Like white noise from a turned off TV

 

Open your pocket

And place my heart within it

Like a time bomb of a watch

I shall tick against the skull of your belly

Until you tell me

That I have saved you

From sanity’s padded cell of luxury

And the concept of materiality

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A poem in honour of world mental health day


A WRITER’S FALL

Climb the hill
Slowly
For honesty quickly
Falls
When spirits are
Low
Open doors close
No more I
Am
You never really
Were
Corporeality is blind
Illusion
Displaced by thought
Intrusion
And the deluded
Existence
Of physical laws
Like an ass
Seeking a brain
Transfusion
Marked with a
Cross embedded in
Its back, a
Holy autograph, yielding
Comforting nuzzles of
self-
Affirmation

Sunday morning sickness


Sunday Morning Sickness

Chemically unbalanced
Half the world is made insane
We are dependent on prescription pills
With unpronounceable names
Pharmaceutically overdosed
On the concepts of suffering and pain

Consuming substances, like Big Mac suppers
That make us do as we are told
We are chained, like dogs, to our T.V. screens
And warned never to grow old
Affectively blunted
Like Frankenstein’s culturally constructed bride
We are the emasculated end product of our creator’s terminal ill health

A marketable sickness, the human condition bleeds, like an open wound
And whilst, medicine eases infections
It cannot heal the soul
Predating conception, we were born to destroy ourselves

NOW AVAILABLE-A Life Reborn by Louise M. Hart http://www.amazon.com/Life-Reborn-Louise-M-Hart

A poet reborn or…just pretending?


I do not purport to be a great poet, or even a good one. I aim to capture the unpredictable ebb and flow of thought as it intersects with text on my laptop screen. For writing not only reflects the consciousness of the writer, but her soul. Thus, when someone reads my poetry, they access part of me that is forbidden to the eye.

In my new poetry collection, I have stripped myself bare. Like discarded garments, my outer layers reveal the surface of my intent. Beneath, I am as vulnerable as a child. I shiver in the presence of pedagogues, those who truly understand the poetic form and fear that my amateurism will be exposed.

After 20 years of writing poetry, I am still a virgin; not penetrated by the sharp pen of scholastic formalism,
I am merely myself.

Truth is pretence.

A Life Reborn by Louise M. Hart is available from amazon, barnes and noble and most respected retailers.

For updates, please follow me on twitter. @shunterthompson

The soul of The Poet


Hope by Emily Bronte

Hope was but a timid friend;

        She sat without the grated den,

Watching how my fate would tend,

       Even as selfish-hearted men.

 

She was cruel in her fear;

       Through the bars, one dreary day,

I looked out to see her there,

       And she turned her face away!

 

Like a false guard, false watch keeping,

       Still in strife, she whispered peace;

She would sing while I was weeping;

       If I listened, she would cease.

 

False she was, and unrelenting;

       When my last joys strewed the ground,

Even sorrow saw, repenting,

       Those sad relics scattered round;

 

Hope, whose whisper would have given

       Balm to my frenzied pain,

Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven,

       Went, and ne’er returned again!

Emily Bronte’s poem provides a glimpse into the soul of the poet. She casts herself in the role of an outsider, experiencing existence, like a flower, threatened by a fateful wind. Hope is not, “A timid friend,” but a creature of two faces; one promising to sooth her pain, the other rebutting her distressed advances, like a jaded existential psychiatrist.

The soul of the poet is a fragile entity. It is created by the spirit of observation, only to be destroyed by inevitability. However, when the soul marks reality’s soil, culminating in strokes of a pen upon paper, it helps shape the texture of the universe.

After Emily Bronte, other souls visited the physical realm. To how many of these have we humble, flesh and blood women and men gained access? The soul of the poet exists eternally.

The Myth of Thomas Szasz


As young person growing-up under the ideological constraints of 1980’s-1990’s Britain, I became reactively interested in a bygone age. The 1960’s ostensibly offered me a model of society in which freedom had seemed, not purely conceptual, but achievable. Thus, I became immersed in the residue of counter-cultural products of a decade, at odds with the ideological emphases of the period of my own youth. During this time of my life, I first became acquainted with the notion of anti-psychiatry, the work of R.D. Laing and David Cooper awakening me to consciousness. It was during this time that I first read, The Myth of Mental Illness by Thomas Szasz. Having recently heard of Szasz’s death, I promptly revisited his iconic work.

WHAT DO WE DO, WHEN OUR IDOLS BECOME OUR ENEMIES?

“Modern psychiatry dehumanises man by denying…the existence, or even the possibility, of personal responsibility of man as a moral agent.” The Myth of Mental Illness, Szazs (1961)

When I was 20 years old, I longed for the day when humankind would be free from the forces of oppression. When I was 20 years old, Szasz’s text told me that man was inherently free. Why, I asked myself, if we were free, was self-expression punishable by The State?
Szasz distinguishes between physical and mental ill health. For him, mental health issues derive from the mind’s interpretation of the problems of life. Thus, mental illness becomes a metaphor for our inability to cope with the demands of reality. Grounded in, “The real,” distress becomes our escape mechanism.
Today, I understand why Szazs’s ideas attracted me. Man is a moral agent and the focus for change; we are greater than The State. Psychiatry has been utilised as a tool to undermine the powerfulness of our true nature and assaults our basic human rights. The psychiatric patient is not beyond reason, she is subject to the coercion of The State.

However, my more mature mind has prompted me to reappraise his arguments. Now, when I read his work, I am aware of the reactionary behind his libertarian guise. For separating physical and mental health, not only sets up binary opposition but, supports right wing notions about personal responsibility; if those experiencing psychological distress are not ill, they are as accountable for their actions and behaviour as all others. The logical conclusion to this argument is that people affected by mental health issues should not be entitled to State benefits or even treated differently by the judicial system.
As a liberal, these ideas are repugnant to me. I believe it somewhat ironic that one time arguments of the idealistic left have been appropriated by the repressive Conservative government of today.
Reading Szasz again, has reminded me of the importance of his contribution to moral philosophy and my own naivety at the age of 20.

The truth of an image


There is a scene in the film, Stardust Memories, in which Woody Allen sits alone in a train carriage, populated by people whose faces reveal angst and despair. He looks through a window and sees into the carriage of another train, positioned parallel. In the other carriage, the passengers party, their faces alive with joy and pleasure.
For me, this scene is a perfect visual metaphor of the life experience. Its meaning transcends the image of Allen as the outsider, looking at life from the inside out; it embraces the duality of the human experience. Joy and despair are presented as polar opposites, the associated behaviour codes are mere coping strategies for reacting to the madness that is existence.
Allen’s existential angst reflects a universal truth; life is a glorified coping mechanism. When we watch the scene, we realise that we are not alone.