Body Cage – a poem

For those processes necessary to life

We are held enslaved, confined in time

Like puppets consigned to fates inexorable,

Inevitable, their nature illimitable, unchanging

Apart from the dire and disastrous, drowning

In our own excesses to be free from breathing,

Processing all that which keeps us alive,

Free to be bound in chemical chains; survive.



Pain Has a Name – a poem

Who would have thought so much could wait,

Slumbering beneath the skin?; slow explosions glow,

Erupting along muscle ripples, the secret name

Unknown until the guest has settled, unwanted,

A home made like wasps honeycombing



It pulls from tendons stretched to itching point,

Nerve impulses blended in with blazing dumbness

To align all corridors of the mind, inveigling into

Cracks, crannies filled to bursting with the effluvia

Let loose, burning amok in patterns without



Vitality – a poem

Vitality of this order strikes

Oddly as if a sword struck strange

By a hammer warped from forces cosmic

Cold and caustic; bright grows all.


Nerves sing in super high pitch

Whines to tell me of more waiting

Than I can process, duress strong

To press upon what faculties are left.


Forces exogenous build up inside

Till tight becomes the drum of mind

Engorged with sensations of sordidness

Whence unduly filled is the brain.


Mirror Man – a poem

Who is the man in the mirror?

Smoke, fire, lines of self, blurred

Forever mysterious behind that pane

Polished, glass high microme shine

Reflecting oxymoronic strangeries.


Those pulses beneath the skin don’t show,

A constant cacophony invisible, inaudible,

Nerves fire, heat and laser increase,

Creep on, health as lies circling, imaginary,

Let the mirror doppleganger go on dreaming.

I Am My Own Hero 2 – a musing

Part 2 – The Long Search Ends


From late 2010 I developed excruciating pain in my right wrist. it was so bad that I could barely think. I reached for as many painkillers as I could, every day. I had physiotherapy, used creams, did stretches, had ultrasound to loosen it, hot water bottles, ice packs, massage. All improvement was short term. The pain and stiffness was here to stay. Now the pain is far less but I lack a lot of the movement I used to have with that hand.

No conclusive cause found to explain the hand pain.

Late 2011 my left arm is numb when I wake up, shoulder extremely painful. I attend more physio, have more tests, do new stretches for the nerves, hospital visits, massage, and so on. Again, all improvement is short term and no cause is discovered.

Early 2012 I develop pain and stiffness in my neck and entire back. More tests, visits to a chiropractor, massage, more physio, new exercises which help my body overall but do nothing for the pain situation long term. No cause found.

Mid 2013 the left hand develops similar pains to the right. No cause found there either. Physiotherapy is ongoing from then until now, sporadically requested when the pain becomes too much. I experiment with everything I can. Herbal remedies, exercise, various painkillers, stretches, rest, meditation.

Late 2016 my request for part-time hours at work has led to a whole new battery of tests and a possibility arises. Fibromyalgia. I look back over my life, my entire life, and see that there was so much I didn’t pay attention to, realise how much of my daily life is effected by a myriad of symptoms. Pain, tiredness, anxiety, frequent urination, Fibro-fog (totally real, I didn’t believe it at first), terrible short term memory (my long term is excellent).

I am my own hero.

I always have been. I identified with all those others, Miles Vorkosigan, Lovecraft, Plath etc, because of the struggles and trials they had to deal with to do what they loved, what helped them to get through it. I look back and see that I have done the same. It makes me happy, and proud to be who I am. Writing has been my saviour, something to help develop myself, work towards goals, improve my knowledge. Writing is the only thing I care about in this vortex of unending pain and tiredness.

I’ve got time off until January 9th and I then return to work in 2017. I have spent this time rearranging my life, looking forward to my next steps now that I am armed with knowledge about myself and can plan with my capabilities, strengths and weaknesses known at last.

I am my own hero.

Who’s yours? What will you strive for in 2017, and your future?

Thanks for reading. =)



I Am My Own Hero 1 – a musing

Part 1 – Heroes

2016 was the year when I discovered that I am my own hero.

Undeniable fact, empirically verified by many others, arrived at by a lateral process of elimination. You always have that thought, that you’re somehow different, that things are that little bit more difficult for you than others, harder in some way or another. Finding out this was real has been a life-changer for me, and something that I have been seeking for 6 long pain-filled years.

From a young age I have been drawn to a special kind of hero.

Batman? Nup.

Superman. A little bit, but not much.

The typical superheros held no lure for me, although the anti-heroes of Western cinema, like Fight Club’s Tyler Durden, interested me with their nihilism and alternative viewpoints. Still not up there as ‘heroes’, someone to emulate, admire and draw strength from, though.

Miles Vorkosigan is the earliest example that I can remember, a chance book gift from my mother, purchased from where is anyone’s guess. He is the protagonist of a space opera series called Memory, written by Lois McMaster Bujold. Admiral Miles Naismith Vorkosigan was born short, hunchbacked, with brittle bones and a serious inferiority complex. I liked him and drew parallels with him instantly. Couldn’t have told you why back when I was 12.

Elric of Melnibone, star of Michael Moorcock’s Elric stories. The heir apparent, an albino prince born with defective blood that means he is tired all the time and often pained, living day to day semi-normally thanks to a variety of strong herbal concoctions.

Now: Sylvia Plath. One of the greatest poets of the 20th century. A visionary, an artist, someone who saw into the interstices that make up what we term ‘existence’. Her writing has long been a source of perverse comfort to me, expressing what I am unable to in succinct, precise lines of wonderful poetry. Mad as a hatter, and committed suicide by putting her head in an oven. Even more of a hero than in life.

H.P. Lovecraft. The seminal horror writer and poet, a man who was incredibly well known in his time for prolific correspondence. After he died he became far more famous for his many horror stories, notably those concerning the occult and old gods from beyond our conceivable dimensions. A sickly child, he struggled with ill health all his life and spent much of his time in bed. A hero the likes of which may never be seen again.

The list goes on, could be extended very, very far. Stephen King, Roger Zelazny, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Jack Kerouac, Katie Jane Garside (check her out, her music is super unique). You get the picture.


Next: Part 2 – The Long Search Ends