you see it was hard for me when my school mates were just in my voices in my head
and my dad and mum gave me carers, for me to do things with, and i can relate to maggie here, cause i wanted everything, i wanted to go everywhere, but it was the
cost of the ****** petrol, i look at this episode, and i view it from the eyes of maggie
because, i wanted to be cool, and i still wanna be cool, but having carers were good
and some carers were religious freaks, some carers, shown me the dangers about the man i used to like to be, and some carers wanted to show me a good time, or how to be an organised adult and some carers wanted to be on the community together, i like most of the carers i like, but there are a few rich arrogant *******, and also i had to pay money for my carers, ya know petrol, one carer, tristan, who reminded me of my brother
and patrick, took me on a holiday to merimbula, i paid for the petrol and my share
but we had a wonderful time, actually i learnt from tristan, about meditation, which i later
found out it was buddhist meditation and i believe in that, and he was a musician, and
i went to see his band at the *** belly, and i enjoyed that, he told me to eat vegetables
raw, he was a bit of a health freak, but i liked him, because, he inspired me, to love life
and he inspired to help my mate the messiah, in the same way, but, inspiration is a funny thing, i shouldn't try and be like other people, you should be yourself, but tristan was giving me stuff i have never done, a holiday with someone other than mum or dad
and later i took the messiah to merimbula, and i watched the pigs perform, not real
pigs, the music band the pigs, yeah, i felt like tristan in a way, but i really should be myself, as hannah montana, don't let anyone tell you that your not strong enough
just be yourself, and nothing bad will happen, you see one carer, who i will not mention
his name, tried to joke with me, by leaving me at revolve, but he didn't, and i had 2 crazy christians, a Y leader, and many more, this made dad and mum relax a bit, but mum and dad, were worried my past, is coming back to me, but what is wrong with looking young
or trying to look young, now, i have the same people clean my house, for me, i help, by making it easier for them, no i am a lazy person, when it comes to housework, but
i am a great community worker, this episode shows when arthur paid maggie to look after her, and i accepted carers after a few years of arguing with them, and keeping
pats voice in my head, until i behaved, i liked patrician and he was no carer, but he was as
nice as a carer, but tristan was a great carer, and he reminded me of pat's nice natiure
and he reminded me of my brother, in his music tastes, and occasionally his manners
with the adults, there is nothing with having carers, no matter what is your problem

but the messiah gave me a mate, behind the scenes, cause, he was nice to me
i need carers, only for housework help, and occasional shopping, and the NDIS might
help me with future goals, like helping the homeless at common ground
maggie beare is like me i am afraid to say, but not really, i am creative enough
to rid the stupidness out of my body

My defensive carer named Alfreido Dimpitt Reemo



You see my nice regular carer, Andrew Williams was sick and didn't want go to work
Which put spanner in the works in the office, and they were wondering who will replace him
So they decided to ask Alfreido Dimpitt Reemo a call, and were happy when he said yes
And they forgot to tell his first client, who can be very confusing in conversation
But they forgot to tell that client and Alfreido turned up at his door
And this was the day that Andrew was going to take him for a walk through the domain
Where the Christmas carols, and Alfreido was happy to take him
And they had a cool time, till the client told him about his old carer who was names Reimo
And Aldreido snapped at him, and his client thought that he doesn't understand happiness
And this made him happier, and he started laughing and trying to joke around with Alfreido
And Alfreido did joke with him, and really they started to hit off
And then, so his client mentioned his old carer Reimo and how much of a **** he was
And Alfreido got defensive, in fact he got so angry he nearly hit his client
And this made his client too shy to say anything else
On the risk that Alfriedo was going to do it again
And he even was afraid to speak his mind, in the risk he'll snap at him
And his client were unhappy about how this carer treated him
Especially when they were leaving the domain and there were some teenagers teasing him
And this made his client think that Alfreido was teasing him with the kids
I know he had issues for what he said, but, he though this was very wrongs the way
His carer was behaving, and every time he mentioned Reimo, in hoping that he would
Joke around with you, he will snap, as if you were trying to rob you or something
So at the end when Alfriedo left, he didn 't know what to do
So he rang up the carers organization and told them why Alfreido came instead of Andrew
And they told him they had no choice, it was either Alfreido or no one
And this client said, ok in the future, I will prefer no one, especially if you send him again
Because he is too defensive, when I mention the name of my old carer
And despite telling him why he snapped, he still felt very unsafe
And said, I want you to send no one, or send no one
Because I felt I am offending this carer with anything I say
And I don't know what I really said, and the organisation said, fine
And Alfreido never saw him again,
And the next time Andrew came, and he was very relieved
And told him that the bad carer has gone, and will never return
And Andrew said, yes, mate, I will make sure they don't ever send him again


Sent from my iPhone

Some people in this life
are here to be looked after
others made to be the carers
I think I am here for the latter
complex minds are born
and clearer simpler minds too
like man and woman
soft and hard

we differ
but in the interchange of time together
grows a harmony
a music of happiness
that forms around ones aura
and makes all things seen through it
beautiful

Margaret Ann Waddicor 10th May 2016

This fragile body hosts an infinite soul
whose human form may not be whole.
What may appear a tragic rift
is in fact a precious gift
to those whose spirits are attuned.
Extending our own body and soul
to others is what we truly know.
Often outside walls close in
with loneliness and credit cards spread thin,
as advocacy with officialdom weighs in.
But nothing will change what you do,
for this is what carers know.
Each body hosts an infinite soul.

It was their first time, their first time ever. Of course neither would admit to it, and neither knew, about the other that is, that they had never done this before. Life had sheltered them, and they had sheltered from life.

Their biographies put them in their sixties. Never mind the Guardian magazine proclaiming sixty to be the new fifty. Albert and Sally were resolutely sixty – ish. To be fair, neither looked their age, but then they had led such sheltered lives, hadn’t they. He had a mother, she had a father, and that pretty much wrapped it up. They had spent respective lives being their parents’ companions, then carers, and now, suddenly this. This intimacy, and it being their first time.

When their contemporaries were befriending and marrying and procreating, and home-making and care-giving and child-minding, and developing their first career, being forced to start a second, overseeing teenagers and suddenly being parents again, but grandparents this time – with evenings and some weekends allowed – Albert and Sally had spent their time writing. They wrote poetry in their respective spaces, at respective tables, in almost solitude, Sally against the onslaught of TV noise as her father became deaf. Albert had the refuge of his childhood bedroom and the table he’d studied at – O levels, A levels, a degree and a further degree, and a little later on that PhD. Poetry had been his friend, his constant companion, rarely fickle, always there when needed. If Albert met a nice-looking woman in the library and lost his heart to her, he would write verse to quench not so much desire of a physical nature, but a desire to meet and to know and to love, and to live the dream of being a published poet.

Oh Sally, such a treasure; a kind heart, a sweet nature, a lovely disposition. Confused at just seventeen when suddenly she seemed to mature, properly, when school friends had been through all that at thirteen. She was passed over, and then suddenly, her body became something she could hardly deal with, and shyness enveloped her because her mother would say such things . . . but, but she had her bookshelf, her grandfather’s, and his books (Keats and Wordsworth saved from the skip) and then her books. Ted Hughes, Dylan Thomas (oh to have been Kaitlin, so wild and free and uninhibited and whose mother didn’t care), Stevie Smith, U.E. Fanthorpe, and then, having taken her OU degree, the lure of the small presses and the feminist canon, the subversive and the down-right weird.

Albert and Sally knew the comfort of settling ageing parents for the night and opening (and firmly closing) the respective doors of their own rooms, in Albert’s case his bedroom, with Sally, a box room in which her mother had once kept her sewing machine. Sally resolutely did not sew, nor did she knit. She wrote, constantly, in notebook after notebook, in old diaries, on discarded paper from the office of the charity she worked for. Always in conversation with herself as she moulded the poem, draft after draft after draft. And then? She went once to writers’ workshop at the local library, but never again. Who were these strange people who wrote only about themselves? Confessional poets. And she? Did she never write about herself? Well, occasionally, out of frustration sometimes, to remind herself she was a woman, who had not married, had not borne children, had only her father’s friends (who tried to force their unmarried sons on her). She did write a long sequence of poems (in bouts-rimés) about the man she imagined she would meet one day and how life might be, and of course would never be. No, Sally, mostly wrote about things, the mystery and beauty and wonder of things you could touch, see or hear, not imagine or feel for. She wrote about poppies in a field, penguins in a painting (Birmingham Art Gallery), the seashore (one glorious week in North Norfolk twenty years ago – and she could still close her eyes and be there on Holkham beach).  Publication? Her first collection went the rounds and was returned, or not, as is the wont of publishers. There was one comment: keep writing. She had kept writing.

Tide Marks

The sea had given its all to the land
and retreated to a far distant curve.
I stand where the waves once broke.

Only the marks remain of its coming,
its going. The underlying sand at my feet
is a desert of dunes seen from the air.

Beyond the wet strand lies, a vast mirror
to a sky laundered full of haze, full of blue,
rinsed distances and shining clouds.


When Albert entered his bedroom he drew the curtains, even on a summer’s evening when still light. He turned on his CD player choosing Mozart, or Bach, sometimes Debussy. Those three masters of the piano were his favoured companions in the act of writing. He would and did listen to other music, but he had to listen with attention, not have music ‘on’ as a background. That Mozart Rondo in A minor K511, usually the first piece he would listen to, was a recording of Andras Schiff from a concert at the Edinburgh Festival. You could hear the atmosphere of a capacity audience, such a quietness that the music seemed to feed and enter and then surround and become wondrous.

He’d had a history teacher in his VI form years who allowed him the run of his LP collection. It had been revelation after revelation, and that had been when the poetry began. They had listened to Tristan & Isolde into the early hours. It was late June, A levels over, a small celebration with Wagner, a bottle of champagne and a bowl of cherries. As the final disc ended they had sat in silence for – he could not remember how long, only from his deeply comfortable chair he had watched the sky turn and turn lighter over the tall pine trees outside. And then, his dear teacher, his one true friend, a young man only a few years out of Cambridge, rose and went to his record collection and chose The Third Symphony by Vaughan-Williams, his Pastoral Symphony, his farewell to those fallen in the Great War  – so many friends and music-makers. As the second movement began Albert wept, and left abruptly, without the thanks his teacher deserved. He went home, to the fury of his father who imagined Albert had been propositioned and assaulted by his kind teacher – and would personally see to it that he would never teach again. Albert was so shocked at this declaration he barely ever spoke to his father again. By eight o’clock that June morning he was a poet.

For Ralph

A sea voyage in the arms of Iseult
and now the bowl of cherries
is empty and the Perrier Jouet
just a stain on the glass.

Dawn is a mottled sky
resting above the dark pines.
Late June and roses glimmer
in a deep sea of green.

In the still near darkness,
and with the volume low,
we listen to an afterword:
a Pastoral Symphony for the fallen.

From its opening I know I belong
to this music and it belongs to me.
Wholly. It whelms me over
and my face is wet with tears.


There is so much to a name, Sally thought, Albert, a name from the Victorian era. In the 1950s whoever named their first born Albert? Now Sally, that was very fifties, comfortably post-war. It was a bright and breezy, summer holiday kind of name. Saying it made you smile (try it). But Light-foot (with a hyphen) she could do without, and had hoped to be without it one day. She was not light-footed despite being slim and well proportioned. Her feet were too big and she did not move gracefully. Clothes had always been such a nuisance; an indicator of uncertainty, of indecision. Clothes said who you were, and she was? a tallish woman who hid her still firm shape and good legs in loose tops and not quite right linen trousers (from M & S). Hair? Still a colour, not yet grey, she was a shale blond with grey eyes. She had felt Albert’s ‘look’ when they met in The Barton, when they had been gathered together like show dogs by the wonderful, bubbly (I know exactly what to wear – and say) Annabel. They had arrived at Totnes by the same train and had not given each other a second glance on the platform. Too apprehensive, scared really, of what was to come. But now, like show dogs, they looked each other over.

‘This is an experiment for us,’ said the festival director, ‘New voices, but from a generation so seldom represented here as ‘emerging’, don’t you think?’

You mean, thought Albert, it’s all a bit quaint this being published and winning prizes for the first time – in your sixties. Sally was somewhere else altogether, wondering if she really could bring off the vocal character of a Palestinian woman she was to give voice to in her poem about Ramallah.

Incredibly, Albert or Sally had never read their poems to an audience, and here they were, about to enter Dartington’s Great Hall, with its banners and vast fireplace, to read their work to ‘a capacity audience’ (according to Annabel – all the tickets went weeks ago). What were Carcanet thinking about asking them to be ‘visible’ at this seriously serious event? Annabel parroted on and on about who’d stood on this stage before them in previous years, and there was such interest in their work, both winning prizes The Forward and The Eliot. Yet these fledgling authors had remained stoically silent as approaches from literary journalists took them almost daily by surprise. Wanting to know their backstory. Why so long a wait for recognition? Neither had sought it. Neither had wanted it. Or rather they’d stopped hoping for it until . . . well that was a story all of its own, and not to be told here.

Curiosity had beckoned both of them to read each other’s work. Sally remembered Taking Heart arriving in its Amazon envelope. She brought it to her writing desk and carefully opened it.  On the back cover it said Albert Loosestrife is a lecturer in History at the University of Northumberland. Inside, there was a life, and Sally had learnt to read between the lines. Albert had seen Sally’s slim volume Surface and Depth in Blackwell’s. It seemed so slight, the poems so short, but when he got on the Metro to Whitesands Bay and opened the bag he read and became mesmerised.  Instead of going home he had walked down to the front, to his favourite bench with the lighthouse on his left and read it through, twice.

Standing in the dark hallway ready to be summoned to read Albert took out his running order from his jacket pocket, flawlessly typed on his Elite portable typewriter (a 21st birthday present from his mother). He saw the titles and wondered if his voice could give voice to these intensely personal poems: the horror of his mother’s illness and demise, his loneliness, his fear of being gay, the nastiness and bullying experienced in his minor university post, his observations of acquaintances and complete strangers, train rides to distant cities to ‘gather’ material, visit to galleries and museums, homages to authors, artists and composers he loved. His voice echoed in his head. Could he manage the microphone? Would the after-reading discussion be bearable? He looked at Sally thinking for a moment he could not be in better company. Her very name cheered him. Somehow names could do that. He imagined her walking on a beach with him, in conversation. Yes, he’d like that, and right now. He reckoned they might have much to share with each other, after they’d discussed poetry of course. He felt a warm glow and smiled his best smile as she in astonishing synchronicity smiled at him. The door opened and applause beckoned.

We, the people of this country, in your eyes are:

babblers, bachelors, bafflers, baiters, barkers,
beakers, beaters, brawlers, blamers, beggars,
bloaters, bloopers, bombers, boozers, blunders,
bruisers, bafflers, bluffers, burglars and burners.

That's why you feel compelled to keep your foot on our heads
keep us down, put us down, push us down
subjugate us, belittle us, berate us.

We, the people of this country, in our eyes are:

butlers, bouncers, bakers, buyers, barbers,
cake-makers, delivery-takers, cocktail-shakers,
taxi drivers, cancer survivors, employers and hirers,
music makers, entertainers, window washers, foster takers,
plasterers, carpenters, scaffolders, sparks and builders,
boxers, carers, coaches, tailors, shoe makers,
designers, illustrators, multi-language facilitators,
dog walkers, dog trainers, bikers and cycle couriers,
doctors and nurses and all the emergency services.

We are the People, the reason you are where you are now
you sometimes forget that we exist as people, somehow
locked in your ivory towers with gold plated showers
and MP expenses and investment banker pretenses
this is not theater, its real life drama, its not just a bluff
its time to stand up
and say enough is enough.

Just turned sixteen
a rage of hormones
erogenous zones
no more sexting
or wet dreams
your sixteen
you have our permission
to give in to your impulses
full submission
your pulse races
no more wishing
release your inhibitions
but before you do hold up and listen.

You can't drink and drive
yet you can think of life
for now any thought you conceive
can legally achieve
a new life you can breed
Should anyone so young have this much power?
to class it as fun and be deflowered
just because you can attain an *******
stand to attention
gives you the right to create perfection?
- when love isn't even mentioned.

Should we raise the age limit?
Would teenage pregnancies plummet?
but you say
they will still do it anyway
regardless
they couldn't care less
do you blame parents?
- or carers?
Maybe we need
a better educational system
to teach them.

It’s the media that feeds
into the body image
a consistent mirage
a constant barrage
of so called celebrities
having *** on TV
With the skinny waist
fake *****
and high heels
what a waste,
you choose
how you feel.

Take time to pause
and hold onto what’s yours
for once lost
you will pay its cost
your virginity
is its own currency
people will value you more
or label you a *****
a ****, a slapper
a used ****** wrapper
go ahead tap her
she doesn't care
what you wear
or if you marry
take her cherry.

Just because it has a secondary function
doesn't mean you have to use your junk son.
the next time you get an *******
steer your mind in another direction
or at least use protection
so you don't spread STD's by infection
having *** so young can be tragic
take the time to think
or you may later regret it.

Don't give into peer pressure
Don’t use others as your measure
have *** at your leisure
when its your pleasure
when you're ready
not just because you've been going steady
protect your innocence
remain a princess
pretty in pink
abhor red
so think first
before bed.

you see there are problems in the world, but having patrick dunbar and greame thornes

previous life pattern, in my buddha cycle, like having thoughts of going out feeling like kids were playing games

with you, first of all, they will plant all these rats and feral cats and angry dogs, attempting to attack you

at every turn, and also back then when my place was messy, there were rats and dogs just walking in my

parents laundry, and it made me have problems cleaning my house, and i wondered why we saw rats and feral cats

and my cat muscles was also turning feral and i wanted to calm him down, and i started having my hooligans visions

coming when i went out, when i saw kids laughing or screaming in a drain in wanniassa, and this made me feel bad

i told the messiah about it, and he hated it as well, thinking, someone put the kids down there, and then i heard my

mate patrick, say, i am not mucking with the crazy person, because i was getting his clean mind giving me all sorts of delusions

making me feel, he was poisoning my mind with all these delusions like, muscles is the dingo that killed azaria, you see

i was battling my delusions, ya know, having a hard time, with a mate who hated what rupert murdoch was doing to this world

and i was wanting foxtel, but i seriously couldn’t afford, because rupert murdoch had the prices go too high, and when i had

foxtel, i remember i was in dilusion land, ya know, thinking i was getting a private jet to fly to the USA, to volunteer at a major league baseball match

and another thing too, i felt i was given USA TV, because, my delusions were putting the AFL, on the sunday night, and there was

a USAFL match, on there as well, and, i was having a great time doing volunteer work on the street, at the footy, i loved that, and i did

volunteer work at vinnies, i liked that, and i liked playing santa claus too, but i don’t do that now, i picked up all this ******* outside kingsley’s

and i got honoured for that, and i helped cook the meals at the rainbow, i loved that, but nowadays they turned it into a course, and i liked the

idea of giving the mentally ill people a good meal, and i worked at the softball field, in the 2003 masters games, and i cleared tables as well

as other jobs to do around there, i also worked at the kanga cup soccer, but i hated the last day, when they made us do crowd control, not my forte

and because my house was messy, my parents just went mmmm mmmmmm mmmmm, and this drove me crazy, i don’t want to miss out on opportunities

just because my house is untidy, i tried and cleaned my house, the best as i could, but i was hearing voices, you must help here, you must help there

you must help everywhere, the men will talk to me, if i helped people, and i loved when a man said to to me, your doing a good job, mate, and i liked

when men said, keeping busy, mate, and when i said yes, they said good, good, and when i said hello to dad, dad just did a sigh old hi, saying, i was only

like him if i cleaned my house, and yes, i know it’s important to clean my house, so i have a cleaner come Monday mornings, but, i wish there were opportunities

out there, where i can show off my novels to important people, i don’t want any cats anymore, one reason, i can’t look after a cat very well, and i could see lots of

rats and mice in my flat, and i am scared of rats and mice, because of the disease factor, and animals to me, i find, could send me to the psych ward

i know cleaning my house is important, and getting rid of rodents, is a way to clean, you see, lately i say, i got to help the poor, every time i see a poor man

give him money, cause i am not a rich *****, and i am not, and i spend money to try and give me things, i like computers, i was using the computer as a place

to display all my previous life and current life anger, but dad looked at my stories, as not very nice, but i was expressing where my anger is coming from

i want to have novels written and ideas pushed over to television, now i don’t want a cat anymore, or a dog or a mouse or a rat, i prefer to keep myself from

buying any sort of animal, because every time i am asked to do something,like take care of a cat, i go crazy, and i get cranky, cause i haven’t got a perfect life

because my parents have twisted m thoughts around in my head, if i had someone to live with, or moved to another city, with the same services, i will feel good

about myself, because i would still get the cleaning done as well have carers and i need a job, i need a job, i want to show people how to write their problems out of them

i hate being treated like a girl from bay watch, getting kidnapped by old good mates because they fucken agree with parents ruling over their kids and i don’t

because i am going to get what i want and i am not aiming too high,my stories are good enough and even this story, please leave me alone, i want the perfect life

i crave the perfect life, and as long as i don’t buy a cat, i am fine

And the Hippy-dippy,
Squeaky-clean -
The tattoo'd-up
And arrogantly mean;
The never-know originality,
Mere followers of others:
Take comfort in crowds,
Talking amongst their "brothers".

Neither God-fearing,
Nor Devil-may-carers -
Just followers of fashions:
The latest and greatest,
Economically-driven
Sheep to a register's beep!
And when they die -
As they must -
To whom do they fall?
And to whom do they trust?

countless generations of bards and preachers
and poets and sages
and honorable and revered members
of our respectable societies
countless such generations
have spoken and declaimed
have sung and serenaded
on goodness and cruelty and avarice -
and yet put them in power,
and scrutinize their lives
and their words
become thin
and their lives shallow
and their songs are cherubic lies;
a long line of saints and philosophers
and prophets
and mild-mannered selfless carers
ah such holy stewards
a long line indeed
has nurtured humanity, its sick and downtrodden
and radiates love in all directions
but oh scrutinize their actions and
their motives
their lives are but comic contradictions
pathetic self-delusion;
ah, let me not seek to change the world
but see to myself first
rather than jump into
hot-air sermons and vain exhibitions

Careless days
Ignite
The carers fire

Let it burn

These laughing days
Drown
The tears
In their own salt

Let them drown
Down
Down

The screen is our religion,
dreary eyed and mouth wide open we are absorbed into the graphics.
Swirling around us on the the Tv plane are the stories,
“breaking news” we are breaking ourselves,
because the tendrils come shooting out and grasp our brain feeding us poison.
Our soul carers called the democratic love playing dress up,
a wolf in sheep's clothing,
and while they play we are neglected,
bad parenting.

We don't get to play,
we are the ants,
in systematic order, we provide,
the only time we get to play is when we retreat inside our mind.
Then we become the stereotype “ignorance is bliss”
while the world falls to pieces, is it because we voted for this?
Maybe.
We are the ones in control and yet we have no power,
we lounge inside, the clock is ticking by the hour.
The world is broke with each secret kept,
each person pretending that its okay,
while the connected, open minded ones feel powerless and hide away.

I am a result
Of not two people
I am a result of advertisements
Of politicians
Of company's
Of ideas drilled into my head, by constant repotion and threats from authority figures
I am a result of headlines that scream the words ****, death, racesim and terror.

I am a result of built up hopes.
The countless movies that show us heros that conqure the impossible, while slowly walking away form an explosion.
The comic books that boldly display abilitys we then dream of.
Expectations we are forced to have that someday we will save the world.
I am the result of reality hitting you full on like a world saving superman punch,
I am the result of relizing, that there is a 99.9999999999% chance I am not the "chosen one"

I am the result of an enviroment where I have to hold my breath to not let the toxins in
The overdose headlines
The children I see inhaling away there future and when I walk by blowing it in my face
I am the result of an overdose that ripped away my uncle
A world filled with misery and we find this the best way to "cure" it.

I am a result filled with images of diffrent family's breaking apart, leaving broken children behind.
A result witnessing the hurt, homeless and heartless walk on the same ground but don't awknoladge it
The veterans thrown to the streets
The gay pride rainbows coverd in the dark clouds of pregiduce this world is shadowed by
The sour taste of racesim lingering on individual tongues trying to break through a wall of common sense
The weaponising of wonderful wise wishful young children around the world to creat a fearful, fierce, fiery killing machine
I am a result of this world, the mistakes we all make, the suffering we all take, the lives these mistakes put at stake, these wounds that ache, the cusses that spin in children's head thanks to drake, these politicians people see as lying snakes, this earth that quakes, that brings us awake
I am a result, in a world of results
Of hope that one day we can push these fears away
I am a result of an army of dreamers
A horde of lovers
And a croud of carers
I am a result of two people who tried hard enough to make a difference
They are my sheild and my sword equipping me to fight this poisend world
We are what's left we are the dreamers the workers and the lovers and once were done fighting away the hurt, evil,terror and pain,
We can look out on this world and call it
Our result

you know one thing i hated as a kid, is not being included, because every kid

wants to be included, i love life, i love to PARTY, i love being normaL I hate nothing

nothing at all, you see i had this friend named patrick back in those days, and he

never yelled at me, i hear him  yelling at me  in my head, but that is the cosmos, you

see i tried to be like him, because he helped me more than anyone else, took me to jimmy barnes

concerts, and i liked him, and he took me to nye parties, and we certainly partied all night

even when i crashed over his house, cause i didn’t want to show dad how ****** i was, pat

never yelled like a *****, but i turned out to be a ***** in the end, because i had too much

creative energy i had to get rid of, and i was a ****, until i started seeing carers, they have all

helped me by making me understand that he ain’t my daddy, but i still wanted to see him

but i have to realise, we are adults now, and we have to grow up, when i am watching chris rock

i am hearing nonsense voices of my mates hating black people but i learnt from the messiah that

black people are good comedians and good athletes, there is a lot of knowledge in black people

more so than in white people, blacks are struggling day in and day out, while us whites get it easy

and i am saying patrick was the nicest white person i have ever met after meeting a few aussies at

the cricket, i liked patrick back then because he helped me understand a bit about my family, to whom

i used to get cranky with, well, mainly he was showing me what my family was doing with them, ya know

the other kids, anyway, i have no ideas what patrick is doing now, but i hope he is working in a top high class job

because i am an artist, and writer and youtube entertainer, when i go to bed, i ain’t like canary bird, and i ain’t

a koomarri man, i just fall asleep on the bed with the radio on to keep me company, and when i yell at my voices

i am basically saying, i AM THE BIG PARTY PERSON, I PROVIDE PARTIES FOR ALL, i have moved out now

so come on DUDES, because going out is fun, patrick taught me that, my head is saying, he didn’t wanna do that

because i don’t like yelling at people, i prefer if i yell, i yell at the cosmos, because bailey from the show NEIGHBOURS

‘when he yelled, he looked like a CRAZY person, making the man say ‘YOU’RE CRAZY BAILS’ and that man who said

that told bailey he was crazy, reminded me of patrick, in the way of saying, patrick was a very nice person, he didn’t have to yell

if i meet patrick again, i will explain i am an artist and writer and youtube ****** and then i will tell patrick, i have always liked the computer

it’s just that i like going out having fun too, i have been thrown out of houses or flats, but patrick never did, so that makes him

number 1, out of school chums who i mucked with at school, and i like the joke by chris rock, men can’t go backwards sexually while

women can’t go backwards in lifestyle, i know we said imagine what lylle would do, here, imagine what lyle would, there, imagine

what lyle would in any place, yeah mate yeah, i am cool, i remember playing heavy metal music loud with patrick, as well and playing

basketball as well,  now patrick, whether he liked christmas or not, he still put his xmas tree up, i can tell you one thing though, i am

a buddhist who loves christian holidays, and i had fun teasing the old army men, who fought and died for this country, you see

this year is the 100 th year of gallipoli, and it’s an oldie thing to tease with music now, because young army codgers are in it

to be there for their country, patrick is a heavy metal ******, mainly liking jimmy barnes and me, as cronus put dad in barnesy’s family

as his little granddaughter betty, so dad, the old army codger from way back can learn the nice parts of jimmy barnes

i remembered patrick singing when your love is gone, and i liked him singing it, but i was looking at his legs, i was CRAZY

because i shouldn’t look at people’s legs, i am not gay, i am a man with problems, i have changed from all that nonsense of my minds past

i am now the new and improved brian allan, but i realise that patrick might not like me saying this, but he helped me, by not getting cranky AT me

i just want to make peace with my good mate, opatrick, because, he might have been ******* with my criime

and because of that crime, and because he was nice, when i saw he was cranky, i left him to head down the mall to be big bad brian

and the best way to get a guy over to a girl’s house, is put a ***  on the stove and you will have every man breaking down your door

you see, i was hearing crazy teasing in my head, and patrick’s voice was saying, is he trying to be like mr allan, i thought he was trying

to be like us, tease him, fight him, bully him around, and patrick still doesn’t know that channel 9’s karl stefanovic reminded me of patrick’s cool kid

to my mind but i have to tread to carefully there because patrick might have been trying to be like craig from kingswood country, he might hate

karl stefanovic, it’s just he reminded me of patrick, what is wrong with visions, pat might hate karl stefanovic, well his cool kid does anyway

and my cool kid is ***** hogan and sam marshall, patrick is a young dude figure

A broken home,
Mothers ******,
Schizophrenic father,
Forever arguing.

Alchoholic parents,
Supposive "carers",
We may seem happy,
But I promise you, we are not.

Suicidal daughter,
Her body she slaughters,
With blades and bleeds onto her mattress.

Youngest sister,
Always missing,
She's always so angry,
This is not a family.

We go on,
Day to day,
Arguing away,
Portraying ourselves happy,
But dying inside sadly.

What happens behind closed doors,
Will never be revealed,
The floor gets wripped up,
And the ceiling caves in.

Suicidal daughter,
Cuts herself again,
Before getting the rope,
And standing on the chair,
She writes some notes,
Then burns them,
Never to see her "family again".

She takes a leap of faith,
Into hope and grace,
Of a new life,
And a new happy family.

Oh little one,
Your heart died so young.
Life can be a pain,
And you were stung.
You sought happiness,
In the arms of your own.
As joy did not exist
In the heart of your home.
Your carers,
Were made of stone.
Flashes of anger
Turned you cold.
But through this,
You continued to grow.
Be proud,
Little angel,
You have won this alone.

The carers of clock tower.
Dark this morning.
Mornings lights switching on as work motions, the end of night.
Going into the city,
Spying twitching curtains, of forward moving city lights.
Smoke hangs grey in the cold air above the refinery.
An early photographer catches the lights in his lens.
Sadly, a dead fox curled up on the carriageway greeting eternal sleep.
Foxy for one escaped daily drudgery.
Greeted by overnight headlights.
He bade the world a perfect goodnight.
And so my daylight came.
From the night bus, I stepped into day.
From the kerbside my day was done, someone cleared the fox away, his  vulpine body was gone.
(c) Livvi

When we meet again
It will never be the same
In the arms of Lord Jesus
From the moment you leave us
Life can be so unkind
When dementia takes your mind
Slowly dismantles your world
Mother to five boys and a girl
But now in silence most days
When I speak you have little to say
You struggle more to take medication
Memories of dad you no longer mention
With food you now eat much less
Carers now help you each day to dress
It pains me each day with what I see
As I can see, I'm slowly losing you and me
Nothing will mend my broken heart
You are my world that's falling apart
When you leave it's to a better place
Our Lord will give you a warm embrace
Just remember when you look down up above
I always cared and gave you a sons true love
There is nothing I can do about floods of tears
For in my heart forever I hold you dear
Just remember mum through good and bad
The happiness as well as times when sad
For now by your side forever I will stay
Until your starlight fades away
Till one day all life comes to an end
Poetry I will write till we meet again
And until we meet again
Life will never be the same

8/11/2015

Oh Lisa daughter of the fallen,
Come hither so I may bless you
For what you give with your
Carers’ hands and gentle smile
Is greater than imaginable.

I thank you with my frail heart
And my thin hand and voice
You came to me on Easter Sunday
And again on Easter Monday
Bringing your gifts.

Love Mary

you see when i lost my first and only full time job, at the canberra rex hotel, and dude back in those days, it had a cafe and a pool deck a restaurant and a bar and bistro out the back, apart from getting teased in the way i did, i really loved that job, so much in fact, when i was laid off i was very depressed, and dude, i could've had depression, because the whole atmosphere changed, o got ****** into the dianetics cult, where i was made to believe i had a fucken full time job, and i had mates i hung around dickson with, then i ******* a boy, and i lost touch of my mates since then, and my paranormal voices, got me on the straight and narrow, i was seeing a psychologist, but i stopped seeing them, big mistake, because i feel happy now, with carers and psychologists, maybe i had depression, maybe i have 3 mental illnesses
depression from losing my only full time job
terretz syndrome from my drinking days, i yelled every swear word under sun
schizophrenia my silly delusions i get
is it possible i can have three mental illness's, is it possible
that is why, i am cronus, ok

three 8.5% oranjeboom does that to you,
in between several whiskeys,
you end up derailed somewhere in the mind,
you end up writing really crazy ****,
but of course in relation to past experiences,
being told to dig up baby potatoes
in an allotment patch filled with weeds,
taking some home on the sly,
while watching “here by the grace of god”,
ok honey, just say it, retards, on a day-trip,
drooling, taking out their genitalia and laughing
being herded like cattle by the carers
because their parents have died, the ones
with down syndrome
being the most intelligent of the lot,
a little spark in them still there -
because you weren’t the one who’s intelligence
was insulted and told that this is
adequate psychiatric therapy -
but indeed it is, here in england, perhaps
not as bad as the great american pharmaphilia
(excessive pharmacological prescription;
will the big buck ever buckle? who knows:
but i do know that your brain will end up
being a surgical insult to the professions
of psychology: spongy goo tomato purée).

little daddy waddy

******* his thumb

just like a stuck up little brat

i am a man, ya know, run of the mill

though i am penniless, but

that doesn’t stop me from being talented

but dad teased me like a stuck up little brat

is what he looks like to me

yeah, he helped me

but i wasn’t his cool kid, back then

what is wrong with me

to him, i was trying to be a cool kid

dad, to me was a nerd

cause he probably only liked together people

i tried to gain his respect

but i learnt together means theory for *****

i am never going to grow up for dad, but he isn’t around anymore

i am a real real man and dad was like a little baby wa wa wa wa wa

i liked pat in my head, because i didn’t want to pick fights with dad

i was visioning dad as a perfect little gentlemen, what’s wrong with that

i probably hear laughing at my mental health TV station idea, what is wrong with that

that’ll be fun for the poor and suffering to have a mental health TV station

mentally ill people love entertaining

i hate voices in my head saying to rob my stuff

i was a little young dude, who isn’t too woosey for life

who’s a little young dude, who isn’t too woosey for life

brian’s a little young dude, who isn’t too woosey for life

ha ha ha, i hear voices of old mates protecting me

they look like geeks who are trying to be like little homely kids

dad never understood that i was trying to be nice

he didn’t understand i liked partying at shopping centres

i wanted to be a real hotshot cool kid, to all the party young dudes, i liked that

i chucked a tantrum because dad wanted me to be with disability workers, i wanted more

ya know mucking around in groups with them, yeah they are nice

but i am an independent artist and writer aqnd youtube entertainer

mind you carers are helping me be an independent artist and writer

i was having delusions that my mates pat and lyle were treating me like a little cool kid, they ain’t my daddy’s though

dad was, i never got on with him, i wish i did

dad tried to say, your one of the young dudes, treating me like him and mummy, i hated that, but i tolerate that now

i heard old mates saying, leave the more big bad brainy winey, your not like us, NEVER

when i committed that awful act on an 11 year old boy, i heard my mate pat say in my head

you are not ever going to be treated like one of US  young dudes ever again

the voices say to me, i am a cool kid to the young dudes, but i ain’t better though

then the voices say, ***** are better, i told the voices, i am not a criminal, i am not a pheadphile

i am party loving, poetry loving cool man, dude

the voices can say **** till they are blue in the face, i ain’t getting worried, but the voices are annoying me all day, I HATE THAT

i tried to be a little cool kid playing cool for people going to bed, and dad said, uhhhh! get away from me, kid

dad was a man, and now he’s little betty campbell, see ya betty from cool man brian

you see dad up there in NIRVANA, i am the only disabled person in our close knit family

and you are being forgotten too, in a way, in the cool way, dad did say, he doesn’t wanna be cool

well, this affects betty’s mojo

flap flap flap. all day long yeah

yeah, we will flap flap flap ya see right through the nigh

ya see i feel like doing nothing but i want to do my art

ya see i feel like a little flap flap flap all day long

i saw this young disabled man who has problems with his folks

i get a bit sick of people complaining about their mums

yeah i know they can be controlling but it’s all out of love

and i say this, but i can look after myself

it doesn;t really matter if i have problems saving money

and i have problems with not using deodorant

but i do most of the time, because it gets rid of the bad smell

ya see i used to tie myself up and i looked like a hooligan or geek

i want that feeling to stop, because i look like a freak

ya see i hated being murdered by steven bradley in my last life

and i feel like s pheadaphile when i stare at my dads next life’s picture

these feelings are driving me crazy, i wish it’ll fucken stop

or i will get this fist and slam it right through your head

ya see i am crazy, and i am as crazy as hell

what i need to do, is just keep my beliefs like that under my hat

ya see i saw drawing north as they sang you’re the voice

we have the chance to turn the pages over

we write what we wanna write, gotta get much older

ya see i like doing youtube, and i know i am disabled

but i am a better artist and writer than the teasers will ever be

ya see i wish i was rich, so i can look after myself better

but i have athena helping to make sure my teeth feel better and don’t show any pain

ya see i hate people looking at me, as they are going to hit me,

like i hated being treated like a bin robber at ainslie village

just because they didn’t know i was a cleaner

and i hated being teased at work, because i was their hardest workers

but i never got really what i wanted, like i am doing right now

i hate people saying, your still a young dude, or your still like our mob
‘
i like being a young dude but i hate getting teased

i don’t like people who think i should stay with the loners

because you get more fun being in groups

i know next year i will be getting the NDIS and i am trying to think what i want out of life

because it is important to have carers and it’s important to get ya  house cleaned

ya see, i know i don’t work, but i am happy, i have done a lot this year, by doing my framing for my artworks

and art therapy would be a great choice for the NDIS as well, because that costs a lot

i am thinking about what i want from the NDIS very carefully, whatever i get i have forever

i prefer to remain positive about my life, even if i am not really getting what other artists get

but i have my art in exhibitions in a few places, and even if i have a high price, it just means i want a high price

if it doesn’t sell, i keep it for myself, if i sell it, i get the money, how cools that

ya see i want a lot out of life, and i want to help a lot of people

i will never hurt a baby, that’ll be ever so bad

and if i saw someone hurting a baby, i don’t know how to protect them

because some fathers and mothers are tough

if i touched their kid, they would yell blue ******

if they touched their kid, they feel great because they deserved it

it is enough to drive a good man like me, nuts

ya see as i said, i hate how paul robinson is treating steph

i would like to steph get her own back

she looks reformed, like me, never allowed to bury the past like me

i want the best out of life, and i want to live my life to the full

money money money is all so funny, in the rich mans world

If you will indulge me, a Story for you:

"Ending"

I’m safely tucked up in bed now. So frail. When I think how fat I used to be. But I’m very, very old. Might even die tonight, in my sleep. Can hear the wind howling outside.
It’s not such a bad place this. The carers look after me well. If I’m lucky they will wheel me into the garden again tomorrow. Hope that wind dies down and the sun shines. Where am I? Can’t recall the name. This Dim Enta thing. So tired now. So tired…
“And wake!”
What? Where am I? On my back! Ceiling. Face! Doctor Sanders!”
“It’s over, Krol, welcome back.”
I remember. Doctor Sanders. I’ve been hypnotised, regressed to a former life. Lived that whole life! And now I’m awake!
Me: “Did I just die there?”
Dr. Sanders: “Yes Krol, in your sleep. Or at least the person you were died in his sleep… But did you get the full life experience this time?”
Me: “Just about, Bob. I can remember back to being about three. My parents, our little dog, a baby sister. Playing with a wooden train or something that you could ride in. But it seems I died in my sleep…”
Bob: “How far back in time was this?”
Me: “I was born mid-twentieth century, not long after the Second World War…”
Bob: “Fascinating. Better get you into Debriefing, before you forget it all.”
Me: “Yeah. It sure was a long life. Lots of history for you. I can’t get over that that was me!”
Bob: “You’ll soon adjust, Krol.”
Me: “That Death thing was scary, Bob. I was afraid of ‘dying’, as they called it, for most of my life. Thank goodness we found a cure.”
Bob: “Yes Krol, things were really rough back then. But come on, let’s get that report of yours done…”

Paul Butters

© PB 13\6\2018.

hi dudes


when i first moved into my new flat, i remembered seeing adults relaxing in the bed, i can’t help looking in

i was walking up the stairs, and i saw this fat lady relaxing in her bed waiting for her shift at the hospital

and i was cleaning my house so i can make it like a hotel/motel, so i can make myself love life more with

my truthful but negative friend, and i was eating dinner at 5.00 and after that i had two chocolates

and when i started running, sure, i felt great, but walking is better for me.

you see i was saying to myself i love my beautiful mummy about 100 times, and canberra are probably calling

me a freak or saying shut up disable or something like that, you see i like the bed how i want, i just moved my

bed near the dining room and i was battling voices from carers and family saying, it will look horrible near the kitchen

but i feel the  motel atmosphere , where i can enjoy life, and my head is really slowing my body down,

but i will try and write a great story, you see since 2004, i became a writer, to get the delusions out of my head

you see i kept a lot of stories on my computer till i felt good enough to send these stories and i am popular, you see

i feel the itch on my fingers and i have cracked feet and i want a pill to get  rid of my cracked feet, i don’t like thugs

treating me like a loser, because, you see i said every day, i love my beautiful mummy and my big heavy body, **** it’s hard

work carting this big body around, but i’ll manage and i know i am very lazy, where i sit down and there is always something on the floor

and when i try and clean my house, my voices are controlling my body, making housework a daunting task, i still am messy

because every time i clean my house i get more crazy voices of old mates treating me like a cool kid, saying, i will sit here watching you, while you

while you hear these vioices every day till you die, and we are having fun teasing brian, but i write my problems out of me

and i am showing you in my pictures how shades of partying, halloween and canberra cavalry and the hometime party

and as i said, i sponsor a kid with world vision, i feel great about doing this, i remember arguing with mum a lot

and that was because i was having problems, i didn’t want to hurt her, i love my mum,  there is an itch in my stomach, which goes

‘we are treating you like a cool kid,’to my old mates, you see my voices are created by the simpsons, and i am  bart simpson, but

i am not wanting the TV to take over my voices, and i use my buddhist beliefs to stop it, and my uncle Ray pocock now lives in nicoragua

his next life is luis exequiel gonzales cruz and he is my current kid i am sponsoring through and i, who was put on this earth to save the world,

well, i am trying to brighten up his world, and ray will be trying to rebuild his new life, while his last life’s nephew brian allan is his sponsor

you see buddha brought luis to brian allan, so ray pocock gets his wish being helped by his old family, i used to say before ray died, i love my beautiful mummy

and i love life so much, to make uncle ray pocock’s next life luis gonzales cruz, i will help you

i remember eating hot cross buns at easter and also easter eggs and had heaps of fun at our christmas eve with ray’s sister in law

the old dock silent in winters cold embrace
such it would be all day
save for the logistics race
to the moaning of a ship in slow decay

seagulls hover high above on ***** wings
her tumor of rust and fallen pride
they heckle her, the filthy things
on winds of scorn they ride

she should have been allowed to drown
to end her reign with stern held high
but profit must in books be noted down
for her tortured hull, no end is nigh

in her hold now; fresh water, tinned fruit and frozen meat
drums of oil and parts for the engine to spare
to keep this crew, her carers on their tired feet
and make her next long trek easier to bare

alone on the dock he watches her leave
once more, like in times of old, she raises her sail
wishing the sea to offer her reprieve
for a reef to shatter her old tired hull, so frail

Sorry Mr Jolly, I don't think your quite that frail
I offered my assistance, but now I'll have to bail
Your requirements are beyond me, a wash from top to tail !
My qualifications do not extend, to care for an older male

Who normally does your personals, why can't you get a bath ?
Official carers they just leave, and you can't get the staff
Does Mr Jolly scare them off, before they grace his path
Or maybe your too vulnerable, when you expose your bottom half ?

Sorry Mr Jolly, if your really all that smelly
I wouldn't be that comfortable, if I just washed your belly
Regardless of all other things, I'll stay home with the telly
And I'll see you in Psychoville, alongside Mr Jelly

Community spirit's one thing, but I'm afraid it must be trashed
Those parts of old men's body's, in my presence should be stashed
Mr Jolly I am sorry, if your washing dreams are dashed
I didn't really fancy, any part where I get splashed

Sorry Mr Jolly, can I give you a small tip
Emergency numbers aren't for you, to have a bath or strip
Scrub ups are not possible, and a shaving I must skip
Hygienic services I can't provide, cos I'm not well equip

Who said that I'd do anything, I think their just a wally
Old mens plonkers can't be handled, by a young blonde dolly
I wouldn't even try it, covered with an open brolly
What your asking I can't do, I'm Sorry Mr Jolly

When I first heard the word
existential
I thought “Ooh that’s posh
perhaps I’ll pepper it in conversations,
Bosh! and figure out later
what it means.”

Twonk I was, I only slowly
saw the word existence hidden
in the cleverness of syllables
and then I thought I got it

But not until a maw
began to daily swallow
more than a thousand souls
of families and carers,
teachers, truckers, nurses,
loved
did I become aware

And I was scared.

Not just life being lost
but existence
the whole ****** swirl and fanfare
of little faffs and laughing drunken,
first chuckles, first kisses, first footsteps,
Sunday roasts, broken hearts and ecstasies

The nail-clutch of my anxiety
floored me
but underneath an ember burned
and a fire-question unfurled and grew:

How did we let this be?

petrol running out the panic scare is on
people lining up now all the petrol gone
people who are ill cant get the help they need
carers cant  get fuel for the petrol greed

petrol stored in cans locked up in a shed
so they have there petrol for the days ahead
greed it just takes over they really just dont care
people cant get petrol no petrol anywhere

Plenty says so,

So-called carers want you to glow,
Urges and tips are just spits,
Came outta mouths,
But never outta hearts,
Pity you are, since you are obligated?

Scribbled bluffs,
Stuff The lusts,
You yourself honor your Huffs and Puffs.

I know this.
I knew this.
I’ve always known this -
that life
no matter how precious
could be snatched away
in the wink of an eye . . .
or even less . . .
even quicker.

Another tree
with so much promise,
cut in the careless gust
of a passing wind;
Another soul
who cared much
for this one and only Earth
had gone too soon.

I know this.
We know parting
but whenever parting comes
the sadness is never familiar.
We’re shocked
and need to be consoled:
This loving planet
never forgets its carers -
trees, butterflies, birds
and all it breathed to life
and all it nursed.

And when big trees go
the wildlings and saplings
the seeds you’ve sown will grow
in your steps, in your shadow
they’ll follow

the forest of our dreams lives
and that, as you rest in solemn space
you’d be happy to know
It would comfort us
who you’ve known , , ,
I know this . . .