Mental Health Problem

There’s a bath shaped  hole right where my brain used to be.
Bruce Springsteen wrote and sang about a Wrecking Ball
Well, I know where he’s coming from when tonight I get hit again.
And dream about bath salts and a plug on a chain and shampoo.
In reality, my head is going under and I can feel chemicals burning my lips until the moment I break free and breathe the air heavenly.
I stand in nature’s blanket cold and shivering but I forgot its good to know you were there to put the blanket on and to comb my hair for me.
My prestige lies on the dresser brought home from a trip to London one day.
I forget I don’t need it when I hear your voice telling me that there’s something else except a to b not that It works today or yesterday or even tomorrow. It’s all gods plan for us mortals, you say. What plan? I reply, saying a quick prayer. Yours? Bentham’s plans for fillings not required, Operations cancelled worldwide, Ricketts in the family too? And me with a Mental Health problem.Your plan is one of misery if indeed it exists at all except in your mind. Never mind that. Come to bed.Let’s sail away.

Art for art’s sake!

Day IN Court/Criminal Sense

My walls are in need of a paint job
But I have a mental health problem
Common sense? Criminals sense
Pull one off over his eyes
He won’t care, he’s blind
to the makeup of a shopping list
Sees problems, has got no gift
Like what I have guv’nor
Burn your lawyer’s letter
until it’s your day in court
then you will see
there’s only you and me.
in this dream of culture.

More Invisible Than That

Some people must think that if you don’t mention something for a long time then the facts will change in their favour. Well, they don’t.

And more so, other things will occur during the interim period which may complicate things further.

Burying your head in the sand is all very well if you are an ostrich. For the rest of us, it is a grave mistake.

Unless it’s about politics. Bury, bury away!

Confidence

You’d think I have it. I wonder myself. But then it clicks. Failure. Failure dents confidence. And it’s not something that’s always on is it. It’s like a light bulb. Or is it like the stars always in the background? Always up there with arrogance and less savoury survival characteristics?

I think that my confidence had been largely misplaced throughout my life. I have learnt to the detriment of some other part of me that sometimes it takes confidence to succeed but also that at other times saying what you are thinking is enough.

This philosophy has helped me a lot recently as I battled with mental illness and finding myself in a new part of town with no mates. Often it was the small things that brought me on to new things that I now couldn’t live without. That is not to say that it hasn’t been hard and difficult. It has. It has been lonely, cold, intense, fear inducing, alienating solitude.

Confidence?

 

What Is This Life?

Odds and Evens and Vermin,

Aldi is not the only fruit,

Here on this street.

 

While we hang around

and whisper ‘please’

It’s a load of old rope.

for them on the dope.

You barely even know.

‘Skewers’ you call him

As he makes a ratface at you saying

 

 

‘Take in the chainmail stuff,

This is Britain bruv’

wiping his dirty hands on his sleeves

. ‘What will I wear then I wonder?

For Arthurs Roundtable assembling over yonder?’

 

Esconsed safely in your rooms you promise.

He should have picked on someone smaller’

and with rolling pin at the ready an’ all in a lather you muster

You don’t come around here telling the ducks which way to quaack and all that

young fella theres more to this life than being a yeller !

I could go on but it would spoil all the fun of finding

out what life is like on this street. And We’ve barely even started.

I’ll let you know how things go.

So we say goodnight.

And wish you all happy dreams.

 

Good old Terry Wogan. We miss ya!

I thought id write this for TW from about half way through. I began to hear his voice talking the words as i wrote and rewrote. So this ones for Sir Terry.

 

Shit Street

I live at number ten Shit Street.

On this street, there is no love, no joy, no hope.

Only silence, silence that is dead, or violence, that is also dead to me

except for a shiver I make meals and wash clothes

Without company, I listen to music and write and draw a little

It helps pass the time here on Shit Street.

I go and see my family who then give me a lift back to shit street

I have a phone, internet and mobile, but it gives me no pleasure

here on my shit street everything is upside down

Here on shit street a dead animal stays in the gutter for days.

It’s school holidays but no-one plays here on shit street.

People walk past heads down concentrating on getting out of shit street as fast as they can.

Expensive cars drive past shit street and their dust brings a sparkle to shit street.

I might attach my spirit to one of these cars and see if it will take me out somewhere not in shit street.

I used to have dreams of inside houses with PS4’s Dreamcast etc but now I have dreams of not living on shit street.

It’s lonely here on shit street. I should get some phone sex here on shit street. I should get peach schnapps here on shit street.

Police sirens go past shit street wailing of shit as they scatter it all over shit street.

SHIT STREET JUST BECAME SHITTIER.

All the bitter people walk down shit street.

All the happy people avoid coming down shit street.

Traffic is diverted and roadworks stop what is left on shit street.

Shit street gets up my nose. It’s in my absent clothes. My fashions abused

here on shit street. No-one cares for my views here on shit street.

The world goes on around me here on shit street. But nobody cleans up after them.

here on shit street. I live in an itinerant house here on shit street. my neighbours never stay the same, except needy, criminal or abusive here on shit street.

Do you want to come and live here? On shit street?