Everything at night’s half-seen, massed leaves dark heaps, or intricate
poplar baskets, seen because back-lit by yellow street illumination 
      my head swung unlocked, a back door staring wide open 
into blackness, hinged, square-edged
                           but incapable of being shut, so no protection
from whatever darkness was. It wasn’t comfy,
      a planet-rotating-on-its-axis childhood sort of night, 

more of a vector angle, dimensionless, a velocity without reference 
points to tell me where the hell I was? What blackness? Somewhere? 
Where? Which universe? 
                   Psychiatrists pretended that they knew (fed up: 
next patient? Same misery again) Prescribing 

magic end-of-the-rainbow pills gives training years a point: 
“These stop hallucinations”
              (also stop brain-parts making sense of anything at all, 
disorganise grammar superglue the locks inside ill heads) 

Repeat “Mentally ill patients need to take their medication”
like that’s true for everybody all the time? 
               Simplifying moonlit half-seen massed heaps of dark inaccuracies 
into “facts”
                is meaningless as Vapes when we want cigarettes!

“In fact” neurology staff crossed out 
the listed anti-psychotics she-must-be-given when I lay in Intensive Care 
unconscious, stopping the convulsions that were killing me,
             that saved my life.
Pretending brings some of us, like me, through dark dreadful 
black-as-sootness to a noise of blackbirds singing wildly, greeting
the emerging sun 
              in a December dawn, almost 3 years free
of anti-psychotics. Ordinariness is becoming
believable at last to me, and 
                 other people are real!