I suffer from Bi-Polar disorder, also known as Manic-Depression.

The poem below attempts to describe a depressive episode and

the poem to the left describes a depressive incident.

   

 

  Depression

  October 13 1999 Bootle

  (First published in See me, Hear me 2002)

   sinking into depression mean

  sin king into depression mean s

  sin king into depression mean s

  sin king into depression mean s

  sin king into depression mean  s

  sin king into depression mean s

  sin king into depression mean s

  sin king into depression

  mean s

  sinking into

  black treacle ~ ~ ~ ~ air which

  no longer slips easily into lungs turned

  to

  rottting glue

  means sinking

  means sink

  means

  sin

  means

   sin

  meeans   sin

  unforgiven

Damp Friday

(First published in The

People’s Poet Anthology 2002)

Bootle Strand

on a damp Friday evening

not even knowing

why he was there

not at all conscious

of self

until that voice

disturbed then

it flooded through him

and he elbowed through

staring crowds

each step quicker

than the last

and brakes screeched

in the rain

horns blared

in his brain

as he crossed

Stanley Road

seeking shelter

and seclusion

with a child’s

concerned phrase

whipping at him

lashing at him

tearing through

his muddied mind;

   ‘Mummy that

  man's crying...'

 

Gerard Manley Hopkins

 30th July 2004

(First published in The Ticking Crocodile

 Blinking Eye Publications: 2004)

he was the first white rapper

pounding his dizzy jazz rhythm poetry

from a flower-decked pulpit in his heart

i met him once on the Everton Brow

looking a bit like Del boy’s little brother

tall and insipidly pale he moved politely aside

as i was staggering about waving at

unresponsive taxis and then suddenly he

turned black as night, started snapping

his long slim Jesuit fingers and rapping about

some bloody bird he’d seen just that day

i sat on the pavement and watched his eyes

alive with passion as the rhythms sprung

pounding into the neon-tainted crisp air

and then afterwards he came to visit me in the

bridewell where he blessed me with a cup of tea

dabbed four times across my sweating forehead

and fed me a bacon-flavoured slice of Jesus

which i ate with fervent relish

(because there was no brown sauce)

and i remember thinking that even if there

had been some available; it could never match his

Loss Lingers

  (For Chas)

(First published in

Corrupted Memories 2004)

touched by frost

the last rose wilts

folds in upon itself

seeks solace

in winter slumber

touched by loss

the soul wilts

folds in upon itself

seeks solace

in solitude

frost and loss

both wilt

but for most

of a given year

there is no frost;

loss lingers

  a grief

  for all seasons

my Messiah

(First published in TPP Nigerian

Summer Community Magazine 2005)

my Messiah

sleeps close to a park bench

makes sounds like a contented bee

smells like fresh turned earth

looks like a rag bundle

feels like sandpaper

tastes like rough tar

smiles at everyone

i see him often at the extremes of day

as he strides out in search of deeds to do

or catch him scurrying home to his cardboard

kennel by the leafless chestnut tree

in Derby Park… but when the sun is above us

or when darkness enshrouds us in the iced night

he is seen only by those in need or by his father

who tucks him up each night with a can of

Tennent’s Super and a half eaten pasty

or, now and again, [as a special treat - which

usually happens round Christmas or Easter]

with a glass of hot brandy and a mince pie

Abortion

October 1963

(First published in The People’s

Poet Anthology 2003)

Shut off from reality

and heavy with dark rum i guided her

to the house on

the hill where the

grotesquely humorous Dr Hook

waited with his

torn sheets and cotton

wool - hot-water and that

fisherman’s knife with the

brass clasp that made her recoil

into my arms

Gagging with the fumes

from the pad i stood above her

and held one hand stifling

her screams with that

vomit-inducing ether

for close to two hours until

his eyes dark and fear-filled

told me it was over.

Afterwards i filled the carrier bags

with blooded scraps as she

laced a cotton pad between her

legs rocking... retching...

hand-on-distended-stomach

and then i picked up

a tiny globule and wiped it clean

perfectly curled in that

foetal position

three inches long

with sightless balls for eyes

and perfect toes and fingers...

Now; forty years on

i see it still; its eyes now

are blue and can see

the real me, the one who

planned and... executed...

There is no point in refusing

to accept

in arguing that i am

not he, reasoning that he

has gone totally,

every atom and molecule...

for i know that something

intangible is still the same and

so i accept the accusing stare

a reminder of the continuity

of my life

  and the finality of its.

  HeadLine  

  August 2000

 (First published in Peggy’s Blue Skylight Issue 4 2001)

  21st Century dating agency

  makes appalling error

  dot.com

  sent to meet

  pulp-socialism

  [dot says

  she will wear

  a red-rose

  pulp will carry

  The Guardian

  and wear a pin

  stripe suit]

 Billy the Bastard

(First published in

Corrupted Memories 2004)

Billy the bastard died

of testicular cancer an’

at the funeral

i got the giggles

when blear-eyed Simmy

kneeling at his pew

whispered:

“…if God has to give yer

cancer in yer bollocks

yer’d think he’d have

the decency ter stick ‘em

on with Velcro.”

i could hear Billy

laughing too

    but not God...

Foot&Mouth

(March 1st 2001)

(First published in

Corrupted Memories 2004)

...animals are being

killed and burned

by the thousand...

says the newsman

So what’s news?