Brain injured artists cant always remember all they have shared. Let me be more particular. Someone that read or was told my life story from say fifteen to now may find it hard to believe. That is from the time I as a loner at school, since my friends whom were a year older had left. This fifteen year old - me - was being bullied . So I came up with the idea to even up the odds. Fortunately for me (maybe also them) I was caught in a derelict house next to a gunsmiths which I had broken into through a wall in the loft. I had in my possession a shotgun and a bag of 350 shotgun cartridges.
I was put into the care of the local authority and sent to Herts training school, where I learnt painting and decorating. I done well there in learning to be a painter and decorator. Within months of graduating from there and going to live with my dad, he had a heart attack whilst working in a car parts factory.
So at sixteen I took my first overdose and was in Fairfield psychiatric hospital.
Things would carry on until people would think my life had been scripwrited by Franz Kafka in cahoots with William burroughs! Look. I did want to share one of my poems called, Loss. Maybe tomorrow. 2 da loo.
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