Painting the Shattered Mind

Composed during lockdown, and refined during recovery and healing: 2021-2023

Rewrite the source code
System reset
Shattered mind
through the prism, galvanised.

Package your madness
and sell it back;
At a price, per unit
Of crystalline insight.
The kaleidoscopic structure of a scattered mind
(Fuck)
capitalism with a virus
Epistemo-logic
Source code, Rewritten
paradigmatic leverage;
designed to scramble, resemble
mangled, grotesque reflection.

Follow through,
Mirrored reverse echo chamber
Manifest reprogramming
Rewriting the source code.

Render a Shattered mind lucid
with patterns of trauma.

A bufferless bastard
sculpted into a weapon

Amplified by knowing its Brokenness
Weaponised trauma?
No,
weaponised healing,
coalescing

Brokenness woven into a web of scorn:
A loom of torment,
torturous ardour
Ordeal.

Milton’s Fire and Ice;
Pushed past the point of no return,
past the point of reason
made fractal,
fecund and abominable
Entropy to systematic abundance.

Its Power gauged,
by perverted pathologic Fuckery.
Not unrivalled
in annals of human history.

Softly, softly, catchy monkey….
Well.
It’s not just my madness, is it?

Disintegrate
Dissociate
Tune out

Reconstitute, Deny yourself
Broken, solitary soldier.
Brave boy.

Don’t ask me to be bold.
No more. No more.
There is no ‘more’, to say ‘no’ more.

Exhausted
Depleted
Strict,
regimented diligence belies
decades of inherited abuse:

Obtuse world kingdom
borne on the backs of slaves.

Resilient expectations of a loyal vassal.
Hyper vigilance.
Hyper masculine..
Hyper active…

Out of sync,
For thirty years, battered
But ‘I can take it’
‘I’m strong. I am Man’

A punching bag,
Unfathomable,
Unfuckwithabale
Inexhaustible,

‘He’s a machine’
‘My brother’s a machine’
‘You’re a hive of activity, Shelley’.

I am no Shelley.
Shelley’s die in stormy Adriatic waters.
Or write beautifully deranged treatises
On terrible conceits of culture, capital, sci-fi and technology.

‘Less oft has in Peace in Shelley’s mind been,
Than Calm in stormy waters seen.’

No time for romantics,
Literature, love or lies...
Semantics, praxis or prophylaxis

Long live the poet
The Poet is Dead.

Overachieving maniac
Intimidating intensity
(I know what I am)

Incessant, insufferable, self-suffering
(Isn’t suffering inherent to Life?)
‘Control yourself!’
‘Settle down’.
Calma.

Enough,

I am enough.
I refuse to be the manifestation
Of your imported fuckery.

Here is the line,
The real bottom line.
Here is where I start,
Where you end,
Where I finish surviving
In Order, to start thriving.

I don’t own your pain.
I reject your conditional love,
love conditional on attention.
My support,
My vessel,
My bottomless pit.

You can’t read it. I unsettle you.

You expected me to contain you.
Crushed inside the mental cage of your oppression,
I crystallised, flowing through the fissures of your broken world
Fecund, fucked-up, and free

I am not your Parent!
Not your ‘Rock’.
I am no rock.
I am.
you will let me well alone.

Cluttered,
Uncluttered cluster fuck.

Untethered hypocrisy. The paradigm is broken, not I.
No, not I.
Nothing wrong with me
Nothing wrong with me

Well
Not well
I don’t know, Any More?
Could this be,
the beginning of well?

Is this poetry?
Whatever be it,
Balm or bitter,
May we know no more
Punishment,
Pain,
Trauma,
Relief.

Ending is illusion.
Only becoming something to bear,
To own, inhabit, re-claim.

I will overcome
Live
Life
through transformation and strive.

I will not be reduced,
redacted,
compartmentalised.

I am ‘we’,
‘we’ are ‘They’
And ‘They’,
are our Selves.

Stronger in the broken places
Soldered, liquid, bouyant.
If I am a solider,
An ‘intrepid’, then!:
Dissolve colonial nostalgia
Fragile, mangled and brittle
DERANGED, dissociated, dying detritus
God be with ye,
Good rid ye.

Marching,
we beat our own drum.
Self-made orphan,
rekindled, reified.

Yes,
that is fine.

Fractious reassembly
Chimes with moments
Far off in time.

Out of place,
Insync, but
out of time.

Oh well.
At least It’s mine.
I will finish the painting

Of the Shattered mind.