Saturday, March 28, 2015

i'm on a plane.

there is something about my
dead friend's girlfriend, something
that i do not like. some

suspicious going on
with that broad. reasonably,

she was fed-up
with being a component
in a love triangle: herself, my dead friend,
and his former depression.

yet still, i insist we dig further. there's still
something about her. something

that needs to be analyzed.

it is said she is an innocent girl. they say this
and i doubt their sources have been double checked.

i doubt their sources are reliable, in fact.

but it was my dead friend who had
committed the psychobabble. not she. not

such an innocent girl.

he was psychotic all the time, after all. she
got used to his language sticking out

like a sore thumb. and while she was patient and kind.
with her little makeshift halo,
he was the one

who didn't make sense.

it was he
who wasn't taken seriously. no biggie.
he said stuff all the time:

spoke from his heart
as if he himself was his heart
speaking about the pain within each beating

of its heartbeat drum

all of the time.

his surviving girlfriend has not healed me, nor
has she healed the brokenness

of one hundred fifty families.

you downright
subservient idiot. you self-righteous asshole.
i feel comfortable with calling you names.

i feel comfortable with casually referring to you
as a complete bitch.

you don't even have it in you to
feign ignorance. you couldn't get past

your pride,
at least for that.

you have proven yourself so
damned attached to your
sense of pride that you sold

your soul to it.

the schutzstaffel is not after you
not because you're good.
they are okay with you

because they have paid you.

tell on us all now. tell on us all

without clinical explanations.

you know it all, so you've convinced
yourself- you had dated a sad man this one time.

and that's really being
around the block.

attend to your new job now. shut-up, you with
your nothing to say
stuck in your throat

when off duty. have nothing

to say
unless getting paid. and then, tell

on all of us sad people.

does it pain you as greatly as you
claim it did
with my now dead friend?

and here we go, sucked into the
vortex of
i cringe at- your new quick fix.

the criteria for "sad" will now be changed
to psychotic extremes-

a field day
for the big pharma industry.

when we
get the blues, we ought to watch out.
we could turn into

the boogeyman
but be too off of our rockers
to figure it out ourselves.

we might all need

whatever onslaught of
expensive generic
that my dead friend was tested on.

experience the possibility
of placebo. experience

the disillusion in psychiatry. experience

being the target
of the marketing
of the nocebo, the self-diagnosing

for the populous

for the sake
of big pharma little pharma

to hit the jackpot


like what happened to my

experience institutionalization.
experience de-institutionalization.

welcome to the viscous cycle.
we still live in the jungle.

it's a trampoline thing
of premonitions and impulse. a tragic twitch.
spectacular death wish.

better go for that
generic. you do not want
the SS on your tail. best beware. best beware.

i am surrounded by friends who
live like how i live, each of us

in it together, guardian angels
for one another.

i say funny
things to them all the time-

a real energizer bunny, going and going
in an emotional whirlwind- all
is full

of fight or flight.

i tell them intimate things
not because it seems as if they need to be known,

but because it seems responsible
to share

these thought and felt entities

i otherwise furrow a brow at.

like my living friends, i am on my knees
all of the time, begging

for the truth- real truth, universal stuff
outside of my perceived fluff.

that mentally ill stuff.
that "i'm a psycho" stuff.

brutalize and brutalize and brutalize. could it be

that that is all there is to it?

my living friends speak up
when i am truly, obviously
could be

in danger of fucking up, for they too
are responsible. look at us,
all grown up.

and yet here i am, practically
the automatic weapon
held to my head by my phantom hand,

that i go about handling awkwardly.

here i am, world. a big fat star
failing the conquest
of shooting myself in my head. see,

i hold no desire for quick and painless.
i want full penetration. rapture. rapture. rapture.

this plane is going down.

i'll fuck up if i must; give back to the world

all that i've got.
some spectacular dream. a real scream.

it would be scary, much scarier
than even the closest intimacy we each behold

in fragmented memories,
some mass destruction type of shit. and look at

my dead friend now. he told you something

of similar effect, and you heard what he said.

so his ex girlfriend says. but i do not like her
so i do not trust her.
she says she helped and helped
crossing her own boundaries

and helped and helped and helped
and helped until she yelped and yawned and
cut the crap and
moved on with her life.

you listened, though, too, right? didn't you? didn't
i have a right to believe you did
only to soothe my neuroses, my worries.
please tell me you listened to him
when he said he was going to destroy the world.

oh, you did not
him? then, suit yourself,

go to jail. never get out.

allow your own plane to go down, all alone,
all alone,

for i'm so mad at you.
bad girl. evil cunt.

never ever leave jail.
never get out.

my life goes on, running as it does
on its fuel: the
manure. it's high time i try something


enter liberia, libya, somalia. syria, sudan.
enter yemen. enter ebola crisis. enter

two hundred kenyan schoolgirls
that were hijacked and sold through
the black market

with their price-tags that were depended on
for a second chance at life.

enter isis. enter, drunken, despondent
racists. i could find you anywhere. but also, enter,
pro russian separatists,

SS. come

forth, all my pretty ones.

show me what you have got to give me.

teach me to know
everything about the dark side
of the moon

and this alone. allow me to soak in

its energy. come. come to me,

brothers and sisters
that insist on disintegrating.

i have a roof over my head. i sleep
in a bed
and eat whatever, whenever.

i'm spoiled rotten with what is green
and papery.

come in with your scary intimacy-

it intimidates me. give it to me.
i'm half-starved for fresh inspiration.

i challenge my well-being to you.
tell me you're up to no good,
but that you will stay with me. confuse 

me. gaslight. haunt. premonitions. dreams.
make dreams reality.

i have a girlfriend whose spell
i choose to be under. but she can be counted on,

touching me with wisdom. she is a girl within reach. the

hawk-eyed gorgon rears her head, thanking
me for learning
from her. i have been afraid, you see,

i have learned a great deal about survival.
i learned it all from dangerous

people: those
who rear their heads and it is a glory.

the enlightenment

must be crawled to, if crawling past
soullessness. stone-faced,

i forgive this. there is nothing else to forgive.