Why? Why? Why?

I'm here, and I love you.

I have always loved you, and I will always love you. I was

thinking of you, seeing your face in my mind, every second

that I was away. When I told you that I didn’t want you,
it was the very blackest kind of blasphemy.







faaavorite<3?=P

 

No more please. you cannot handle it. Month after month 

of catastrophe (some of it manifested by your defects, lovely defects, you have them all). Non-stop struggling and breaking down and hospitals and doctors and mental health workers that have their heads up their asses. I'm sorry she hurt you. She is no good.She has been feeling dead for too long now. Everyone fled. The pain in her chest likes to move up and evolve into a lump, the size of the Whole Wide World , pushing and straining her throat until her mouth is opened into an ugly sob. Too much pressure. She will never be right. She have never felt like an occupant on this shit World. No more hospitals. No more medication or shock therapy. You are a lost cause. You reek of death and you may as well pull the plug because who the fuck cares man when everything is a twisted nightmare and the isolation is unbearable, yet it is so hard to be among people; they are like automatons or they are built much better than you. They have an agenda. They are. perhaps, more dead than you in a sense. A whole wad of dirt comes squeezing out their mouths toxic and disgustingly. She cannot see the day or the colors and is always so afraid." I have to be good." "I have to be good." It is so easy to be crooked. They see her crookedness sticking out of her soul like a murder....and even, perhaps, no for sure, a burden. Lay her down. She is so afraid of laying down because she can't get up and no one is there. She made Hell. She does't have to live it. It is her choice anytime. Her right. Her septic life.She hates life.She hates it so intensely. Without a drug, she is dysfunctional. She swallows pills for her brain and all the other fucked genes she was so blessed with. Fuck this. She knows she is wrong. She will never feel present. She is wasting. Instead of having someone stick a needle in her arm she will just tell them to ease the barrel against her temple like a prayer and pull the trigger. "PLEASE KILL ME. If not, I will do it myself.": Too much.She doesn't belong here in this sick place. "I am never right." And then the great apathy comes and she learns how to tie a noose so perfectly. Just in case. Just in case. She hates. She hates you all." I hate you. I hate the people. I hate the abandonment you left me with. A huge hole in my chest like a double barrel ripping and tearing at my flesh and destroying my organs: that is my gripe. I never abandoned you. You fucked up people. You "friends." Who was there during your NERVOUS BREAKDOWNS? HUH? So fuck it and you rot in your misery. I hope it is as intense as mine. I am not going to pretend to get better. I can't fake it. Sometimes you just don't give a shit. And you dig the hole until it is large enough to dump your appalling body and deteriorated brain into the disheveled dirt hollow. No more tears. No more guilt. No more burden. You tamper with the eternal sleep. It goes around and around, churning in your mind like disease. GET IT OUT! PLEASE KILL ME! "Never wake up. Never ever have to live again. A luxury problem. A bliss. Take your mental illness and drug addiction to Hell. Hell has you. They have given up on you. You have tried everything....almost everything, from the severe to the week's boring vacation at Club Hospital. This is not your life. Go to sleep. Sleep well. You are so tired and sick. Amen.

No number four.

No number four. I cannot section myself. I just have to keep going.  Are you looking at me? Not that pencil on your desk. How fascinating is a pencil? What were you thinking about when you were staring at that pencil? You are so dishonest. Harriett talks to me like I am Jesus. She prays and confesses and tells. She spins wheels of good and evil. She contains no evil, but she weaves it for herself like a cocoon. I have the characteristics of Jesus, but I do not use them for life. He was a revolutionary. I am a repressed revolutionary. Are repressed revolutionaries inspiring Harriett? Harriett said no. Then why do you treat me like Jesus? Because you remind me of him a lot. How could that be. A fragmented sentence just projected out of me. I suppose I should say that she told Jesus many tales. Her mother was silent like my mother. She hated her for her silence. Figuratively she was silent. Folks can be loud and silent at the same time. Every word her mother spoke was a vessel. This vessel would percolate within Harriett. It would become louder inside Harriett. I used to see blood in her ears and wonder where it came from. Harriett said the blood just kept coming: she would keep talking as if it were not spilling.  Her mother had a handicapped imagination. This disorder ostracized Harriett from the womb. Her mother would go on vacations for a long time. Harriett found her master when her mother went on these sojourns; he has been with her ever since the first one. The first was the longest; the rest were endured at shorter intervals.

  When Harriett was finished speaking at Jesus she would reach into her bag for a new face. Dolls can do that. Abrupt ability. Just like this story. Abrupt. It contains abruptability. How the colors would turn. I saw them brighten just a bit too much. This was when she told me how bad I was (and still am). When her comprehension fails the colors go everywhere like the snow. There is no interception and no clarity. She told me that people are vacuums with squamous organs inside. I had no organs. I was just a vacuum cleaner. I sucked up dirt, but I could not digest it. I spewed it all over the rugs and the furniture.

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Innocence upon a time.

And perhaps it was an anomaly, the torrents of grasshoppers, one after the other through a crack in the backyard fence, flooding your insect catcher-the prize of your childhood. Beyond the fence, the marsh, and the surreal parade of grasshoppers. They were your first true friends. As many the catcher could hold was the claustrophobic fate of the grasshoppers, but you were young and ignorant, you did not want to be alone in your room at night and the constant flicker of insect legs  against plastic reminded you that there was life:time did not stop when you were alone. By morning they were gone. Mother and father said that the grasshoppers had to go home. You knew they had let them go. You stared at the crispy exoskeleton, all that remained inside the plastic: a grasshopper had molted while you slept. A strange loneliness passed through you. The remains of a friend, quite meaningless once the life has ceased. This did not deter you from collecting grasshoppers: it became your ritual. Your first real bond, separate from the nexus of daughter, mother, and father, was with the continuous flow of orthopteran insects. The grasshopper: advocate of intuition. The grasshopper totem: never silence your inner musings. The grasshopper chooses the innovator, " forward thinkers that progress in life by unorthodox methods." When you accidentally dropped the bug catcher onto the pavement of the driveway it cracked and broke. Your first little devastation: it was never replaced. The bond, however, did not break, and you would be amongst grasshoppers come the first blaze of summer and every summer to come. Such an anomaly, how they hopped, one after the other, through the crack in the fence. Their parade was endless.
You were the first, the novelty, the bliss of an only child, first daughter, first granddaughter. You were fortunate enough to see the love between your mother and father glow, a utopia of affection they displayed before you with long kisses and caresses.  Unbeknownst, that love would turn bitter as human complications surfaced, reared their ugly nightmares and sullied the insulation of the perfect landscape of innocence. You remember that gift, the fantasy of immortal love, all the skeletons dormant in the closet burst out years later, a cyclone slap of ugly reality and circumstance. The human condition.
Oh! but remember the graveyard? Your father was caretaker of the graveyard. Daddy's little girl accompanied him to play, to observe, to dash about tombstones and the ancient sinking stones engraved with bizarre tales of death adjacent to the railroad tracks. The stone of an infant. Mortality came early. Too early. Was it possible to die before living? Yet play and run and ecstatic glee of being among the cats that inhabited the caretaker's shed. Their names now distant, aphasic, the tongue loses its sharpness when time piles a million other names, stifling and overcrowding the memory with what becomes more significant as time passes. But there were cats, such joy they gave you as a child, the novelty, the first.
The master of the graveyard, old Mr. Merwin, occupied a large lavish home with his aged wife. The wallpaper, floral, lavender, your favorite color, and the old woman a shock of white hair and wisdom. Father maintained their home and property as well. The great white house on the hill you rolled down, over tufts of fresh clover and busy bees, oblivious, disrupting their feast, again and again, laughter and light, the sun, your eyes, ripe with life, on the lawn of the Merwin estate. They were always kind. The Merwins. The rosebush, pinkish-white petals, fresh and aromatic, stood for years on the Merwin family plot. The old woman was the last of the Merwin line. The rosebush waited patiently for her to be put to rest and then withered itself into the ground: the death of a family and the rosebush faithfully gone with the last.
Remember the swinging on the fourth of July. The fireworks visible, ebullient and bursting over the marshes. It was well past dark, late evening, but mother and father allowed you the privilege to remain outdoors past bedtime. And as the colors erupted brilliantly in the sky, you pumped your legs harder and harder, higher and higher, the ecstasy of mini-explosions and the soft whipping of the breeze against your face, immortality and youth, the luxurious privacy of the only child accompanying you as you rose through the night air. To soar through the air as if over the marshes and the trees themselves, to have no fear, to be untainted from the dirty mouths of the older children that would harass you in the new neighborhood, later. How fantastic was the silent electric pleasure pulsating throughout your limbs: the joy and the peace of the simplicity of the moment.
You did not resent the birth of your brother and sister. There was no jealousy. They were an interesting phenomena to me having been the solitary first, the novelty, the little princess. I loved and tormented them, I perfected the art of the brat, but with a curious detachment and disconnection that would only intensify when I was put amongst other children. Nursery school. I hated school the moment I was forced to attend. The presence of other children made me uncomfortable; my perceptions were quite mature fro my age and I found it hard to relate to "the others." This is when the blackness became more acute. My world was disrupted by teachers, and pestering assignments and horrid group participation. I felt like a black spot of ink on a backdrop of white. The disconnection and lack of "belonging" rang in my head like a migraine and I just wanted to carry on with my freedom, but instead I was pushed into a mass of oozing noses and silly ideas about what I was supposed to know. The hollow and aphotic voice took over my sub-conscious. A constant nag everyday, "something is wrong," "something is wrong," perpetually created a shadow that infiltrated my perception. I rarely smiled. I hated the children. They were wicked and cruel. They blotted out the golden age and made everything that was beautiful to me seem foolish and dead. The anxieties, the highs and devastating lows, hyper-elation and thoughts of death. Did every child feel this way? Was every child as impulsive and moody and in tune with what was wrong with the world? Did every child threaten suicide at age five and keep a knife under his or her pillow? Persistent and violent nightmares. Almost kidnapped when I moved to the new neighborhood. A man following me as I walked home alone. The perverse men that had exposed themselves to me, stared at me, invaded my sacred innocence. I was a constant hall-flower in elementary school. I was almost expelled. I couldn't sit still. I was bored to tears. The human condition had pervaded me!

Far From Me

For you dear, I was born
For you I was raised up
For you I've lived and for you I will die
For you I am dying now
You were my mad little lover
In a world where everybody fucks everybody else over
You who are so far from me
Far from me
So far from me
Way across some cold neurotic sea
Far from me

I would talk to you of all matter of things
With a smile you would reply
Then the sun would leave your pretty face
And you'd retreat from the front of your eyes
I keep hearing that you're doing best
I hope your heart beats happy in your infant breast
You are so far from me
Far from me
Far from me

There is no knowledge but I know it
There's nothing to learn from that vacant voice
That sails to me across the line
From the ridiculous to the sublime
It's good to hear you're doing so well
But really can't you find somebody else that you can ring and tell
Did you ever
Care for me?
Were you ever
There for me?
So far from me

You told me you'd stick by me
Through the thick and through the thin
Those were your very words
My fair-weather friend
You were my brave-hearted lover
At the first taste of trouble went running back to mother
So far from me
Far from me
Suspended in your bleak and fishless sea
Far from me
Far from me

Crazy love

Hated by all and everywhere he goes
Blazing contempt for human life and lies
Murder as art and what he knows he knows
from life and fear in other people's eyes

Crazy love is all around me
Love is crazy love is kind
But I know somehow you'll find me
Love is crazy love is blind

She walks the boulevard without a care
Knowing too much but having come so far
Pretending life is just a game you play for nothing
Loving no-one and no-where

Crazy love is all around me
Love goes crazy given time
But I know somehow you'll find me
Love is crazy love is blind

She looks as if expecting a surprise
Maybe an encounter that will change her life
Not knowing hot from cold or good for bad
If life is just a joke or if it makes her sad

Crazy love is all around me
Love is crazy love is kind
But I know somehow you'll find me
Love is crazy love is blind

Crazy love is all around me
Love goes crazy given time
But I know somehow you'll find me
Love is crazy love is blind