To be feeling ill And have fate take in one’s hand A visit to the doctor And have fate take in the doctor’s hand, The diagnosis, The referrals, And have fate take in the specialist’s hand, Tests, Further tests, The prognosis, And have fate take in the hospital’s hand, The administration, Appointments, Cancellations, And have fate take in the surgeon’s hand Scans, Operations, Chemo, Drugs, And have fate take in the family’s hand Grief, Hope, Palliative care, Having had fate take in its hand, Cancer, And with luck, no longer be.

Or high, in men folk company, a mental touch, with that essence of pals which permeates loneliness and might facetiously be called mateship, lived almost unrecognizable, in by blokes, actually, by a regular turning to the very innermost, in the deepest consciousness of the wart-hog, for politeness thereby, turning to alcohol for light, warmth, and invigoration, consumed, consciously, realizing that to turn inward is to bloat within, talking in the presence of a boast, the unreality of loss, that side turned into, then inflated is the skin bin, and lost is the attitude for bodily health as such, because that comes of itself, as an incidental result, found by a special mental act and desire to lose it, forthwith that general attitude of the braggart, the object of life, these outer things so wildly sought, lived and died for, that bring strength and happiness, as come of themselves in knockabout accessories, the mere outcome of a high life sunk deep ...

It began when I was 13 years old, My sister was calling me pus face, Moon head, Mr. mini golf course, I had chronic acne you see, And I didn’t know how to deal with it, I couldn’t answer back, And I’d throw tantrums in frustration. She was cruel, my little sister, Both my parents were busy working, And at school I wasn’t doing very well, So my parents got me a psychologist, I was found to be on the autistic spectrum, And I went into programs, to help me cope, And when my carers went deeper, I was found to be depressed, And a platoon of professionals grew Around me to support me, And when they went deeper I was found to be bi-polar, And they put me on a drugs program, I was still seeing my psychologist, It had been fifteen years by then, My parents paid for me, they were both Still working. My sister got happily married Ended up with a couple of kids, She didn’t need to work, Her husband owned an electrical business, They’d go over...

Is the road to Xanadu beyond option one? I hoped to get to option three, the next portal in code and be welcomed by a human voice yet, to be verified, yes, I’m indeed the one! Then comes a voxy welcome, and no hint of help, a designated slammer of my particular problem. As though I didn’t hear the options maze so right I’m queued, feeling like an Olympic swimmer drowning: My solution, my satisfaction, come to me now! On hold, I am captive to Bach’s disarming melody and I am filled with optimism and hope, luxuries every modern human is meant to share. But I plead for my ignorance, for I am a savage with skin-deep anger, and I do not so easily conform to organisations operating with the eyes of flies. On hold, I’m to reach the pinnacle of the matter and again, I’m transferred into ever-never land, Down I go into the quicksand of further options, Still hopeful of getting through to a helpful one; a possible human in this disembodied organization, co...

There are enjoyments that are to be had under the sun, Like beach cricket and bbq’s and fishing and boating and swimming And the depressed struggle to smile in the midst of it all. for they feel they have no one to comfort them! On the side of their depression is the power to withdraw, And they think the dead who are already dead Are more fortunate than the living who are at play. And lucky are they who are not depressed And not seen the noonday demon block out the sun, The depressed who envy the skill of joyfully doing something, and fold their hands and shut down their animations, For better is a handful of quietness than two hands full of anguish, The depressed see nothing but vanity under the sun: and woe to the depressed who are alone Who falls and have none to them up! If two lovers lie together, they keep warm, But two depressed will keep their warmth to themselves, And the vibrant who move about under the sun Ask all to join them in a game of...

Hear the flaxen grasses that wave Across war fields to unknown graves. They ripple of palpable malcontent Of noise and fire and raging tempests Upon the heads of nubile men Afraid of death from enemy fire. To home the dead’s names come from years of search And to stone, their names and rank are hard rendered Now they will be remembered, By grieving families, And by freedom; for the choices which freedom gives.

Sculptures of finely carved meat; Sculptured by weights and lifted by surgery; The dead body now, and object of beauty; To be admired in plate glass coffins: Inspiring kin mourners to keep on a’gymming.  

At last, flat flippancy commences a sumptuous feast, His stomach is full of mercy; he is to challenge it. In him, the working intestines of a grain fed elephant, With not a hint of the heifer to bolster his waistline. He the Garrulous Gourmand, to say the least, An impresser of the publishers in the use of his vowels. Born to describe the menus at his fake Tudor table, The entrees, the mains and classy liqueurs that cleanse.   A calculating chef seeds him between vast courses And willow waitresses serve him, in unbuttoned blouses. Their loosened breasts are not for his amusing, But to remind him that he channels Henry the Eighth. And he can eat what he likes, until time is mature, And when his engorged ego has reached its flattest C. His diaries of discomfort are for curious pleasuring; Watching for Michelin stars, when he comes a calling.