Monsters don’t exist they say 

They arent under your bed 

I realise now I’m older 

It was all just in my head

But them ones are the scariest 

They monsters in your mind 

The ones that make your heartbeat race 

The creatures you can’t find 

Only you can feel them there 

They’re Lurking in your brain 

No one here can hear you scream 

It’s driving you insane...

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I grew a hat

it’s a part of me

a little piece of inside

when I’m out,

in a head tilt,

a shutter peak,

hiding like mountains

under snow,

tree canopies

in desperate corners

of a ceramic world

I wonder if clouds sigh

when another

enters the blue;

it’s why I prefer nights

the daddy of all hats

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Have been preoccupied with several articles related to Shakespeare Authorship and their relevance to today's thoughts on mental health, gender stereotypes and free speech. This week I ask: "What was the prevailing attitudes to deformity by Shakespeare and his contemporaries?" Qudos Academy examines Elizabethan attitudes to physical deformity and numerous references found in Shakespeare’s plays.

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If you care anything at all about Mental Health Services in Tory UK, and about how the Tories treat their citizens watch this: https://youtu.be/OTkqQX2xvqQ

Modus Operandi-Conscious Cruelty

National Emergency; declare a General Strike;

Are we Hearts of Oak, or timid wee mice?

Stop kissing their boots, tell ‘em to take a hike,

I for one, am itching to get rid of these lice;

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The devil has always been,

A faceless entity

To me.

Until now at least.

Now it has become clear.

I can see.

The devil

In front of me.

They are no singular person.

Instead a pair.

Familiar sight.

Lungs devoid of air.

The devils gaze at me.

Recognizable set eyes.

No surprise.

Why is this reality?

First sight of a child.

Encounter...

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the see-thru states

of liminal infamy

"don't let me down" 

sung in desperate drams

beacons prain

from a street corner

affixed and shorn and 

bare-truthed,

snaggle toothed:

cleft palates and anaphylaxis 

sanded down by time

into a shape something 

much like mine

(too much)

please see me

but don't look;

a shared hypocrisy 

wrung motes of p...

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born to Cybele on a golden cloud
he appeared in a flash of lightning
carrying Prometheus on his back. 
his footsteps left luminous tracks
a blazing trail of prints 
& ground breaking indents
cementing his path through the sands of time.

when the bearded man spoke or wrote 
his words formed waves
blown by the west wind
& the sleeping dead woke
drinking his poems as an antidote
from a ...

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