My autism's a part of me,

But it is apart, you see.

...

Who are you?

With your ‘normal’ view.

Are you just one thing, or are you a person

With thoughts & feelings, that are your own unique version.

Preferences, ideas, talents, and dreams?

That are bound by senses that meet at their seams.

Are you fat, short sighted or visually impaired?

Are you ever wondering why I just stood and stared.

Those may be the things that I saw the first time I meet you,

But you’re more than just your ‘normal’ diagnosis…. True?

As an adult, you have control over how you’re defined.

Your normality means your perceptions are refined.

So why would you single out one characteristic of mine that you can make known.

As a child, I am still unfolding, I’m not fully grown.

Neither you nor I yet know of what I am capable.

If you think of me as just one thing, then one thing’s inescapable.

You run the danger of assuming I have no chance of achieving.

And my heightened senses know this, it’s only you you’re deceiving

For I am not endowed with any ordinary sense.

You need to know this before I commence.

You take for granted sight, sound, taste, touch and smell.

Never once realising that these things can be as painful as hell

For me.

You see.

My world often feels hostile, and makes me so fearful.

I may appear withdrawn or belligerent, whilst others are cheerful.

Or mean to you, or antagonistic,

Defending myself, then going ballistic.

You tell me we’re going on a trip to the shops

And out of the world my safety net instantly drops.

My hearing, you see, is hyper acute.

But I’m put in the car, though I loudly refute.

At the shops, walls of people jabber and whoop.

The loudspeaker booms and adds to the soup.

Music blares and lashes and whooshes.

Tills beep and cough, a coffee grinder swooshes.

The meat cutter screeches, a baby starts wailing,

I’m starting to malfunction and am rapidly flailing

As trolleys pass creaking, and fluorescent lights hum.

I’m starting to panic, but also turn numb.

My brain can’t filter the input, the voltage is massive

I’m in overload with no chance of staying passive.

My sense of smell is stratospheric.

That fish on the counter is NOT atmospheric.

The man in front hasn’t showered today,

That Stilton cheese – someone take it away!

A baby goes past, it’s ***** needs changing.

Things are going faster and turning deranging

They’re mopping up pickles on aisle two with some bleach and a rag.

My stomach is churning, and I’m starting to gag..

And there’s so much hitting my eyes!

This trip has turned into the world's worst surprise.

The fluorescent light

Is not only too bright,

it’s that flicker.

The space seems to be moving, getting quicker and quicker.

The pulsating light bounces off everything and distorts what I am seeing.

I don’t know what I’m doing, or saying, or being.

There are too many items for me to be able to focus.

The world starts to drain me of my internal locus.

My eyes try to compensate by tunnelling my vision

Fans on the ceiling, twist my senses into nuclear fission.

All this affects how I feel just standing there,

and I can’t even tell where my body is in space, do I care?

You’re yelling at me now, and shaking my shoulder

But the fiery fog is down and is starting to smoulder

It isn’t that I don’t want to hear your instruction.

I just can’t understand, due to mass self-destruction.

You're shouting now, but what does "£$%^&&% NOW! !£$%^&*" mean?

My senses will **** me in a collusion so obscene.

Once we’re back at the kids home, it all feels less absurd.

And now when you speak, I can hear every word.

Simple instructions, that I know off by heart.

And I cling onto these so I won’t fall apart.

You tell me what you want me to do next and I’m able to reply.

Now I’m happy and it’s easy for me to comply.

Now I’m OK and I’m running about

And performing my ritualised songs, which I shout.

Then a visitor grabs me saying, “Hold your horses, cowboy!” – This means danger!

I can’t stop the horses, I’m me, not the Lone Ranger!

And I’m thrown into panic when what you mean is, “Stop running.”

But I don’t know that! Those stampeding horses are coming!!

That’s my life, you see, it’s not “a piece of cake”

When there’s no dessert in sight and you’ve made a mistake.

When you say, “its pouring cats and dogs,” I see pets flooding from the sky.

Tell me, “It’s raining hard,” so I won’t fear the animals will die.

Puns, sarcasm and allusion

Simply generate confusion.

Tell me facts and keep things clear

So I can live, yet not in fear.

It’s hard for me to tell you what I need when my senses are reeling

When I don’t have a way to describe what I’m feeling.

I may be hungry, frustrated, frightened, or perplexed.

But I can’t find the words, and lash out, angry and vexed.

Be alert for my body language, or my gestures and obsessions

Then you’ll handle my feelings like your own treasured possessions.

Watch out for me compensating for not knowing the right word

By mimicking my favourite film star, or something just as absurd.

Rattling off words or whole scripts, which will leave you confounded

That I’ve memorised from Disney, because they make me feel grounded.

They may come from the TV, or speeches, or a book

And though they make people give a funny look

I just know that saying them gets me off the hook.

Show me, show me! I’m visual, you see.

And I’ll understand rather than you just telling me.

And be prepared to show countless times.

I’m listening, despite my ritualised rhymes.

Visual supports help me move through my day.

They relieve me of the stress and I feel OK.

I don’t have to remember what’s happening next

For I operate on a visual text.

This makes for smooth transitions in my life

And we’ll finally progress without anger or strife.

I need to see something to learn it, because spoken words are like steam to me;

They evaporate before my mind's eye, and are gone instantly,

Before I even have a chance to make sense of them,

They've died in the ether, leaving me in mayhem.

I don’t have instant-processing skills.

Instructions and information are my life giving pills

Images can stay in front of me for as long as I need,

and will be just the same in years, for they'll never recede.

Without visual help, I live the constant frustration

of knowing that I’m missing big blocks of information,

Not to mention falling short, by being a misfit

And I'm helpless to do anything about it.

Unlike other people, I'm unable to learn

If it's normal interaction for which you do yearn.

I’m constantly made to feel that I’m not good enough

And people are stern and people are tough.

They think I need taking in hand and need fixing.

Never knowing the world and my brain are tranfixing

I avoid trying any new things, for I'm sure I'll get 'dissed'

And another grown up will be angry and get 'real ******'.

But no matter how “constructive” you think you’re being.

Look for my strengths, though they're hard for the seeing.

There is more than one right way to do most things.

It may look like I don’t want to play with the other kids on the swings

But it may be that I simply do not know how to start

They just think I'm weird, and set me apart.

Teach me how to play with others.

Remove my autistic shrouded covers.

Encourage other children to invite me along.

They might learn something of value from my life's different song.

And rather than spend my day as separate, secluded.

I might show an ethereal delight at being included.

I do best in games that have a clear beginning and end.

Random play is something my fears won't transcend.

And just one other thing, a sort of confession

I cannot interpret a ****** expression

Or body language, or other peoples' emotion

So in group situations I'm resigned to demotion.

I want to learn, I want you to teach me.

Reach into my mind and help me to see.

If I laugh when Tommy falls off the climbing frame,

It’s that I don’t know what to say, nastiness isn't to blame

Talk to me about Tommy’s feelings and teach me to say,

“Are you hurt, Tommy, I'll get teacher, then you'll be okay?”

If you don't I'll meltdown or blow-up, and get in a stew

And this is a thousand times worse for me than for you.

For my mind will go into overload

My sense of equilibrium will start to off-road.

For I'm well past the limit of my social ability.

As those off road lights glare at my own disability.

If you can figure out why my meltdowns occur, they can be prevented

And my behaviours will abate, less frequently lamented.

Keep notes about me and a pattern may emerge.

As your understanding of me will gradually converge.

Remember that everything I do is a form of communication.

It tells you, when my words cannot, how I’m reacting to each situation.

My behavior may have a physical cause.

Think for a moment, just have a pause.

Food allergies and sleep problems can affect my behaviour.

Just look for signs, for you might be my Saviour.

Because I may not be able to tell you about these things.

That blunt my affect and cause my mood swings.

Throw away thoughts like, “If you would just—” and “Why can’t you—?”

You didn’t fulfill every expectation your parents had either, that's true.

And would you like to witness a constant rewind.

Of the traumatic deficits by which you're defined?

I didn’t choose to have autism.

Or to live with this division

Remember that it’s happening to me, not to you.

But without understanding, my chances remain few.

With love and support, my horizons are broader

But I can't live my life by other peoples order.

Patience. Patience. Patience, are the three words we need to live by

For my dreams to be reached, and my confidence fly.

View my autism as a different ability

Rather than as a freak show disability.

Look past what you may see as limitations and feel for my strength

I may not be good at eye contact or conversations of length

But have you noticed that I don’t lie, or cheat at a game

Or pass judgment on people, and make them to blame?

I rely on you, if you can make me your personal vocation

All that I might become won’t happen without you as my foundation.

Be my advocate, be my guide

Be my strength, stand at my side.

Love me for who I am, and not what you know

And we’ll see just how far I can go.

Matt Revans 2014
©Copyright

Isn't it quite deranging
That every book,
Every song,
Every dream
Still speak your name.


F.Z.**N

Love is a rare and dangerous creature
That only shows face when the time is right now
Lust is a complimentary feature
Which keeps lovers guessing til both settle down

Not to say everyone settles for less
Love doesn't lie, but it leaves room for choice
Those who are willing to give it their best
Keep Lust in its place and let Love be the voice

Love is adaptable, constantly changing
It morphs and it breathes like a woman or man
Lust is impassible, always deranging
It puts up a wall and masks what it can

Nobody knows what happens to Love
When distance requires the mind to have faith
And stare at the images Lust conjures up
Alluding ideas of mistrust and distaste

Isn't it better to let Love be free?
To keep it confined would just let it die
Allowing the chains for which Lust has the key
To govern the feelings of comfort and pride

Be free, my love, to run through the brush
But always remember where you were at peace
And hurry on back when you've had enough
For I may not be here when your venture has ceased

It is no night to drown in:
A full moon, river lapsing
Black beneath bland mirror-sheen,

The blue water-mists dropping
Scrim after scrim like fishnets
Though fishermen are sleeping,

The massive castle turrets
Doubling themselves in a glass
All stillness. Yet these shapes float

Up toward me, troubling the face
Of quiet. From the nadir
They rise, their limbs ponderous

With richness, hair heavier
Than sculptured marble. They sing
Of a world more full and clear

Than can be. Sisters, your song
Bears a burden too weighty
For the whorled ear's listening

Here, in a well-steered country,
Under a balanced ruler.
Deranging by harmony

Beyond the mundane order,
Your voices lay siege. You lodge
On the pitched reefs of nightmare,

Promising sure harborage;
By day, descant from borders
Of hebetude, from the ledge

Also of high windows. Worse
Even than your maddening
Song, your silence. At the source

Of your ice-hearted calling --
Drunkenness of the great depths.
O river, I see drifting

Deep in your flux of silver
Those great goddesses of peace.
Stone, stone, ferry me down there.

Rings of light lowering from the skies I called my faith Godly and A universe is birthing somewhere; Transporting peace into this world everyone else infidel. Now I going extinct Dinosaurs in There! Ant-eating stick,

I emerged have divine rights to pillage all.

A galaxy few light-years away, A tool-making ape. And gave the Shoreless ocean knocking the heart. At this very moment, life first
key to St. Peter and walked, walked That I locked away behind a
door. peered at

the firmament of stars. Bequeathing hopers,

A light called forth and I walked forth A supernova ***** all light. memories down epigenetic lines. out a mollusc to the future But peace was alive all along. An arc. Epic. Exodusish. enroute a transcience
called man; Now

in the fear of a mushroom There is a God.

Too bland for our Tossing around in a centrifuge. clouds, she graces
the world in taste, lighting all hearts in peace-fires. Giant wheel. Merry-go-around. her dome-shrines dotting the wide
shores. And now

we like them, deranging conflagrations more.

Under frizzed hair,
The Conscious Operator,
Smacking gum,
Waits with her tails of living wire
To make connections
At Synaptic Central.

The reader
Tilts a page to catch the rays,
Scans for symbols,
Begins to send
And to receive
Electric fires of thought
Traveling in from
Senses Five -
Traveling out from
Schema Library's
Data files -
To meet and
To commingle
At the Board.

With octopal finesse,
The tireless Operator
Plies Neural Central,
Sending quick myriads of thought
To rest or to revive in living files.

Neurons snap and arc;
Their coded leaping fires
Surge message-full
Through cables sheathed
To Synapse Central,
Where in her nimble hands
Fire Control finds slots
And coordinates connections,
During and Long After
The Outward Reading's done.

Even when the Blinds go down
Synaptic Central's work goes on.
The frizz-haired friend steps out to rest;
Sub-Conscious moves into her place
And with unsteady hand
Plays seeming havoc at the Board
Rearranging and Deranging
Delightful dreams, or horrid.

This place is always a little lonely
At the weekends...no noise and life;
I like solitude,
But not in places
Where's there's recently been
A lot of people.
Reclusiveness protects you
From nostalgia,
And you can be as nostalgic
In relation to what happened
Half an hour ago
As half a century ago, in fact more so.
                                                            
I went to the Xmas party.
I danced,
And generally lived it up.
I went to bed sad though.
Discos exacerbate
My sense of solitude.
My capacity for social warmth,
Excessive social dependence,
And romantic zeal,
Can be practically deranging;
It's no wonder I feel the need
To escape...
                                                       ­     
Escape from my own
Drastic social emotivity,
And devastating capacity
For loneliness.
I feel trapped here;
There's no
Outlet for my talents.
                                                        ­    
In such a state as this,
I could fall in love with anyone.
The night before last,
I went to the ball,
Couples filing out,  
I wanted to be half of every one,  
But I didn't want to lose * * *.  
I'll get over how I feel now,
And very soon.
Gradually I'll freeze again,
Even assuming an extra layer of snow.  
I have to get out of here.

Under frizzed hair,
The Conscious Operator,
Smacking gum,
Waits with her tails of living wire
To make connections
At Synaptic Central.  

The reader
Tilts a page to catch the rays,
Scans for symbols,
Begins to send
And to receive
Electric fires of thought
Traveling in from
Senses Five -
Traveling out from
Schema Library's
Data files -
To meet and
To commingle
At the Board.

With octopal finesse,
The tireless Operator
Plies Neural Central,
Sending quick myriads of thought
To rest or to revive in living files.

Neurons snap and arc;
Their coded leaping fires
Surge message-full
Through cables sheathed
To Synapse Central,
Where in her nimble hands
Fire Control finds slots
And coordinates connections,
During and Long After
The Outward Reading's done.

Even when the Blinds go down
Synaptic Central's work goes on.
The frizz-haired friend steps out to rest;
Sub-Conscious moves into her place
And with unsteady hand
Plays seeming havoc at the Board
Rearranging and Deranging
Delightful dreams, or horrid.

there is a plurality in the times
for I cannot stop for death
it cannot stop for me
and I hear the roar of silent space
as it  hears the roars of me
driving one towards
visionary liberation
like a frenzied shaman
in his dance
deranging sensories to be found
yet still known in this trance
and punishment for poetry is not new
nor is the strangling of my hair
for we are all solitaries
placed, situated, somewhere
so I wish I was in Zanzibar
to walk upon its sand
to feel the impressions of words
explode within my hands
and to drink all the ink
that baths upon me and calls itself anew
it is the shimmer of this violet haze
that echoes in my view

What sordid devotions to identity and strife
Misguided, deranging
Place joy atop a knife

Only through eyes yet unopened
Can the single truth be gleaned
Unbridled, Undivided
Outstanding, Unseen

I never look at a blank page for too long,

Same goes for facing a blank wall,

it seems to be always missing something.

A photo, a picture, and most of all memories.



When I was a child the same goes with my readers

without those colorful photos, I wasn't

contented with reading the book.

I must have read The House that was up sided down"

More than a dozen times, love how the illustrators  

Mind-expanding illustrations, vocabulary or concepts

had capture my growing mind at a early age.

Today my mind, doesn’t go for the illustrations,

But it can capture poetic details about life,  

And the subject matters: as they come to surface,


When it comes at me in the mirror,

It's not me staring back, but a poet,

A modern free verse kind of poet,

Or would we say a Amazon online shopper,

Instead of a walk-in stores browser

Who see from the rearview of her eyeglasses,


The brothers, I have known them that for the past

Twenty-three years, not on a personal level,

But by observing those two as individual characters,



One was a war vet, the other a computer tech,

One with some post-traumatic stress disorder,  

The other like no other, had a Smoking Marijuana Fixation:

Most likely contribute to his cancer, which lead up to his death,



The other brother, is still here with us,

Hanging around in the lobby, making weird sound

And ****** expression, of a deranging war vet,

We must never assume, who is healthier and who is not.

Because death is a divider, a time stopper,

And unapologetic, defiant Donald Trump of times


At times, I also can be unapologetic

I owes you nothing, I owes you nothing,

I see nothing, I hear nothing, and I am the free verse

Of my daily writing, without rules,  without your approval,

or even riding my bike without a helmet.

Or walking the street of Brooklyn without protection.

Just in case

What if Eve, as an easy lable for YMRCA, were

the first wombed man with wit to make her will known,
vocally?

What if she could sing, and smile, wink and
blink and look away,

coy, from the crib.

She steals, so'ld say the tales, her daddy's heart, but not so fast

this is, say 120 KYA, as current model mortals mark time
since most recent common mom... walked balanced, upright...
I bet she could dance and sing... but
some reason or another, now

no offspring of any mom alive when YMRCA walked, walks now.

Not upright, ya sher... maybe eve was the only wombed man.

What if, any of that, but this is a strue as we may know...

all construed facts point to life being
struely
not as simple as a boom... though there are ways to end it,
as we say we well know,

we've seen the cancers... mental deranging during mind wandering,

we have heard the stories,
Hydes who remained,

but only Post-mortal Marvel has myths where Hyde is the happy side.

Silly, I would love to have friends.
But no stupid people, none un willing to use a word of the day
to escape a bout of ignorant rage

-- Brubeck, Sonny... yeah like the Sundance Kid's prison flick,
-- but Sonny was a first gen Jesus Freak,
with one of those, at will, eididic memory's.
He also owned the first digital watch I ever saw. I thought he was rich.

In a rage, Sonny once screamed in my hearing,

GOD WHY MUST THERE BE OTHER PEOPLE?

as orderly types were taking him, strapped to gurney,
to Camarillo State Hospital,
a truly beautiful place for solitary rememberence
of everything
you ever said or did. Like, the window of your soul

become the big screen, with no body projected there...

all around me everyone is not there...

then I see, I guess, this is a way that prayer was remembered as

Sonny slowly rose to re
ify a present with other people in it, but masked.

today the weather is temperate and modest
sculpted as a model depiction of the artistic connoisseur's painting
i've been observing the seasons change on me
day be the day the park bench withstands yearly attractions, never yet less deranging

so as i lay back with crow bar on the corner of the plank
i wonder, don't think, i'm already of admirable rank
i dig my piercing meteor to the center of the bench
chip, a wedge flew off, resembles a baseball bat when clenched

happiness loves Missouri and i need to take a dip in that river
swim the distance into the current, direction; a lively propagator
currently chilling out on this draft,
catch your lustrous beauty later...we all know this craft

If eyes could evacuate part of the sadness
Through tears
I would like to fill mine in a cup
And drink a sip every night before going to sleep
A time where my lids are hung up to the ceiling
And my ears deafened by the silence
The stars won't shine
And pools of salty water would soak the pillow
Or the bed
Or wherever my head would have landed
Turning, stopping, turning, knocking
Aspiring, hopelessly to come to an end
Assuming the best spot keeps the brain firmly closed
Thinking of that spot
I am still thinking
Depriving
And diving back into the loop
Scarlet roots pulsating  
Microscopic heart in each zone
Patches of darkness on every side
Gradually dipped into the abyss
Of auto-destruction
Drank enough
I knock on the crystal-clear glass
Droplets fall on the middle of my forehead
To the edges, temples
And melt with the dried, former crisped layer
The cup is desolated
I lay it on my face
Deranging the eyelashes
Spasms of fluttering
And I burst, into laughter
Giggling lava
The recipient quivers, trembles
And falls onto the solid surface
Where slightly before shattering
It stood, there, a micro-second, caressing the ground
It seemed the steadiness of it, did not like the gentle stroke
Or maybe the fine glass just harmed itself willingly
And I watched the splinters and fragments
Bouncing and covering
Breathing their last breath
Losing their transparent color
And I cried again
Willingly
Not only because I somehow helped the cup to brake
The floor starred
Little faces,
Grinning
Decomposing
All were mine

A mystical dialogue
in swirls-
to drown you.

Blank pages draw you
for a suicide, without
moving your bones.

A thin worded threat
to conceive a sculpted
dream, deranging
your sea of
cadavers.

No dissecting table
you need to solve the death.
All the arguments are tilted.
You will rig the answers.

They will come
in bunches, to beat you.
You will not hear or see anything.

That the heart is troubled by the heart that is troubled
That is not your own heart’s troubles: the ecstasy doubled
And the room beats full of hearts, overbubbled
In the heat of the moment and the drama that’s cobbled
Together by them, of real sorrows that aren’t theirs to share,
But very much theirs to tear and wear and overstare,
Because the blood cares only as much to care
For the fizz of the moment, and it isn’t your hair
That is being torn; it isn’t your paean that is being sung -
It’s you caterwhauling it, as you will, lung and lung;
And deranging the song, like ten cats being hung
And their guts played alive, violins freshly strung…
But forgive me, I tell you – this is the horror
Of those who will stake in another girl’s drama.
It’s not a piece of your pie, and it isn’t mine either;
I just know what it’s like, so spare us the fever,
And spare me the fiver, ‘cos I’ll dish you no more
Than nothing and dagger looks: The heart still beats sore.

Tangled and lost
in the hoop of
his own deranging thoughts
which crippled him from inside
also consisting of
those dark memories
and lonely moments
when no one was there
to tell him
not to give up,
to go on anyways.
Messy mind is
the worst kind
you can’t contemplate
for even a second
what is wrong
and what is right.
He had it,
all those thoughts
about him and about others
which scared him
but then one day
he got on the radar
and was founded by someone.
Luckily, that someone
also went through this roller coaster
called life at one point.
So he came
and discovered that this guy
needs to be separated
from his
coil of jumbled thoughts.
And slowly, with appropriate time
he cut the cord
which was the main reason
of the boy’s attachment
to his muddled up thoughts.
They used to sit at night,
cross-legged
on the floor,
surrounded with nothing,
but peace
and they did one thing,
few people do nowadays,
they talked.
He helped him,
he arranged his mind
like he had an OCD for
disfigured thoughts,
he helped him
getting back
by taking one step,
just one step,
he cut the cord.
Yes, he cut the cord.

hampsteadTRANSheathpond 22.07.18

trying not to judge
understanding here is no jury
bigotry is set to smudge
can you feel the rage and fury.
the debate needs to intensify
fears need to be exposed
through poetry is the identify
ignorance will never be decomposed.
if someone is changing
as not right for the body
no compassion is deranging
your surviving with out a heart oddly.
come on hampstead heath
on rules and regulations no need to trim
trans-gender are the same underneath
show some compassion and the heath will swim.