WHEEL-CHAIR ART

SALUTATION

‘Remember humanity forget the rest’

Bertrand Russell

You can count the men of true con-

Viction, whose words have impacted 

my life, on one hand: The Tao Te Ching,

Nietzsche, John Keats, Raymond Carver

And Lou Reed. These are men who stood

Outside of the capitalist sentimental world.

And you can’t forget Rilke and Russell.

These are the men that pulled me through

The darkness within darkness, the dark men

Of light that turned my muck to gold. With-

Out them I wouldn’t have survived, these men

Stood behind my barricade and didn’t let

The enemy in, they stood the test of time like

The fist of freedom, my five fingered salute.

Men who got me through the sadness of life
Through their words I felt beauty and truth
And the will to be me. Read everything these
Great men wrote and you to will understand.
They will give you their will to power and raise
You up above the crowd to be true man or wo-
Man of conviction and truth. The world needs
Truth to pull away from this dog eat dog exist-
Tence of greed and give you hope along the way
These are the true poets and legislators of life.







‘Remember humanity forget the rest’

Zom-me

‘I'll be  your mirror reflect what you are'

 Lou reed

I eat these words.

I wake to sleep

To eat.

 

Hope

When you can’t see beyond your-
Self and the summer sun
Shadow’s a mirage of hope.
A friend waving from a pier
of shore, a pearl ascent
transparency a re-
flection of light on
of the water.
When the sun dips un-
Der the horizon
And the day begins to
Shade and the waving
Isn’t there no more.
Tomorrow is almost
Today and you’ve done
This for ten years, you
Can’t do much more.

STABLE SECTERIANISM

Where do you belong?

You live in the east
I’ll live in the west.
The peace-wall looks
So stable, it’s part of
Our divide. Like sect-
Terainism it will rise
To fall. Why not live
In the west and I’ll live
In the east. The north
And south are always
In doubt, hatred and
Bigotry will always be
Our needle point.

THE RHYTHMIC CREATURES

PRETTY VACANT
My Father looks down on me from
A great height of death, as if he
Is home at last, staring me down
Just like he did in life. Back then we
Couldn’t even be in the same room.
You could have cut have cut the at-
Mosphere with a knife, maybe now
This is our just desserts, we can have
Our cake and eat it.

A colourful character, hung drawn
And quartered. My family won’t like
This but fuck them! They never liked
My honesty. Were we ever a real-
Family? or just a pack of fictionalised
foxes from a bastard mind, a fig-
meant from his bland mind.

At least I know where I come from
I’ll take my Mother’s maiden name
Any-day, I don’t even know if mine
is my own. She is the reason why
I’m alive, why these words appear
On the page. She always was and al-
Ways will be the love of my life.

ou can’t beat the truth, isn’t it liber-
rating, wouldn’t the world be a wonderful
story Ville of truth? Don’t worry about
The f word I mean no malice or offence
I use the f word like a four Letter word
like love or rose, it’s been Getting me into
trouble for years I love it, it adds spunk
to life. You would hate this poem dad, I love
You all really, truth hurts.

I’ll lie here in your lies and have an open mind.
Seems I was always the rogue poet, see what you
started ya old bastard.

Have you ever had the feeling of having a clip
around the ear?

ABSENT TRUTH

We live in a negative capability
dis-ease and dis-ability are rife.
Sentimentality is but a plaster
we need to tear off and let the
air of truth heal our wounds.

The path to the path of empathy
out of this uneconomic, inhumane
state is out there like a road less
travelled. Robert Frost was in dire-
straights but he found a road out.
Even Keats created a negative
capability to pull him out to death.

Within a salted tear, brushed of
of the cheek of fear, spilt through
wasted years. Paranoia be comes
us, waiting for grief sorrow and lone-
liness to follow, crying is all we can do.

Even he found an absent truth
to feed an absent youth.


WARPED

I'm optomistic about nothing'

Francis bacon




How can we be ourselves

when we live in a warped molly-

coddled state, full of lies and deciet?

WALLPAPER OF NIGHT

I’m drawing a tree where humanity
Hangs, branching out but its over-
Shadowed by images of horror
And hate, hanging like life’s decorations.

Flat on my back looking up at the shadows
In me left over by the shadows of death.
Like a Wallpaper of night at dawn I see the con-
Tours of black blooms in day, a wreath
Of life’s waking dream.

WALLPAPER OF NIGHT

I’m drawing a tree where humanity

Hangs, branching out but its over-

Shadowed by images of horror

And hate, hanging like life’s decorations.

Flat on my back looking up at the shadows
In me left over by the shadows of death.
Like a Wallpaper of night at dawn I see the con-
Tours of black blooms in day, a wreath
Of life’s waking dream.


DRIVE-BY

I woke to the sight of a burnt out car
just left by the side of the road.
We just drive by on the way to the shop
or on the way to the church bells ringing
The rising of Christ’s in humanity, Man’s
in humanity to man.

I am trying to survive this world of negative
Disability, for the past few days I’ve been trying
To erase that image of two girls raped hanging
From a fruit tree. I was going to use the word
Soul but has man got a soul or just a void shot
Through.

My life has been saturated by the images, burnt

Into my psyche by a branding iron, reminding me

That I am the lowest of the low, a class no-body

Cares about, Im not even in a wheelchair

Hanging when you pass me by. 

These images like the man setting himself on fire 

and the girl running naked away from war with wounds 

that can’t be skin graphed by a warped greed ridden cull-

ture. War on the streets of home and abroad, can you

just drive on by?

i thought the whole point of poetry was to reach beyond that egoless ego

And reach beyond snobbery, I’m just a spineless confessional poet.

                                                                                                                     Adrian fox

Poetry is in the air, were bombarded by words.

We are the catalyst, the rhythmic creatures

That find form in these words, labelled signs

And un-labelled signs like street, cars, house,

Road, tree, me, words are in our blood with-

In our D.N.A.  Whether you’re creating a novel

A short story or a play it must be poetic.  Even

Art is a poetic image of what you want to re-

Present, it’s up to us to make sense of this

World even that name is created by words

World is made up of word, this is a pome

Created by the world we live in:

The sun shadows the street, the cars go by

in style.  I’m within this waking dream of me

and you’re within this waking dream of us

so let’s start  waking to the dream. 

I have to put the break-

Fast dishes away

and make room

for my day.