Bloody Shout

It's too horrible to show; this picture, with its bloody teeth.  I wasn't going to

It's just my outrage fulminates , steams so.  I am  affronted by the  ultimate , untouchable power that the psychiatrists, who cause so much pain and torture are brandishing so hideously at the moment. It scares the pants of me, how it is they, not us, not the sick, the poor, the oppressed,  who  have the ear of the "liberal" press in this country. We , in our suffering and oppression are voiceless in the mainstream; that's the punch in the face that the Observer  affair delivers.

More  than that, as I look around , illusions lying in shards,   I am a bit doltish, I realize  that hardly anyone  really cares anyway. Neighbours  have long since  chosen  to stop speaking to us, they   ignore us  ,they  even try to block us from view,  family members are long since stuck in denial, the Church community, down the road,   waiting   for us to approach it, has long since had nothing to do with us, meantime  the government run by the psyches and  financiers is careering down the road to breakdown,  hemorrhaging away in buckets,  the values that I have stood for all my life;  witness the  growing official acceptance that it is okay to kill yourself if you are disabled, or be killed.

This is the unplumbed hurt that wells up, so frequently,  in my paintings .

Hugging  Linda and feeling  the illness destroy her flinching body , my mind is always racing   : what to do ? What to do  -wouldn't you, if it was your wife ? Even though I am silent , we live in an all-consuming  hush, I must be bellowing out  fury and  frustration .

Later on I grab my paint brush -or erupt.

Then I jerk my groggy  head and stagger back into the ring. Second's out.