From the Asylum

If I draw back the covers of my mind I am blinded by the fury of my honesty:
Here in this timeless desert of thought Where every exit threatens I wander
Prisoner of an aimless will; Where every way is forward & no direction home.

            In this cell days pass without memorial,
            To form coherent words coherently is a wasted luxury.
            I, I am afraid at my silence - afraid at my voice.
            Why was I born to be afraid at others?
            Why was I born? To live this life half blinded and half dead ...
            Oh but the half undead is worst for that half has yet feeling -
            Where there is death there is no pain.

To touch is to cling is to yearn is to despair.
O shit. That’s where it all screws up. An earthquake -
that would be death by god's choice. What can this life be -
mocking me by menstruation?

                        There is no end.
No appeal against the silence. No reprieve from indifference.
No respite from the hate ...
            It should be otherwise, oh it should, it should!

Even now I can hardly be myself: I can only tell you my grief if I am someonelse.

            To be mad is to see what you cannot communicate: the madness comes from the glazed eyes of those who you talk to - the tactful absences of lovers - the collaborative whispers of friends.Oh the irredeemable softness of your face.
            It feeds cyclically on what can never be exprest, the bum's hesitant gesture, the wino's self-disgust, the addict's blister, the amorist's unanswered unanswerable lust. To be called mad, is to want to say things folks dont want to hear in a way thats confusing at a time when theyre preoccupied, in a place theyve come for amusement in a way that jars.
            To be called mad is a political statement, a way of packaging the inconvenient, of defusing the unspeakable.

"Mad people surely are like fish, they feel no pain ...?
Why then, how dyou explain their silence - its not normal.
I am hurt: I cry. Im amused: I laugh. Im afraid: I cower.
But you, well, you do these things without reason
You laugh where there is no humour, cower unthreatened, and cry at will.
You have no way of engaging my sympathy -
Your world doesnt synchronise with mine."

- And so the circular logic goes -
"Youre angry - why?"
- Im angry - so?
"Goddammit, why?"
- ... the hell not. Asshole.
"Ordinary people dont ..."
- But I do!
"Yes Frances, but who’s normal?"
And bit by bit the syllogistic noose tightens round your neck till rational response grows impossible.

"You’re a danger no others!"
- No only to myself.
"You attack them with insecurity: your freedom is subversive!"
- Ah, oh, Im choking. Ah! My life harms noone.
"O yes, society's given you a sacred trust."
- My ass, society's given me a collar of fire and a bandage of quicklime.

Oh Im too tired to fight,
tho if I didnt have myself to talk to, why then, I’d have nobody.

            Christ? I wonder …
At least you were all angry enough to kill him: but suppose youd just left him to rot, like me,the days trudging weary footprints across His Sacred Body?
Would you have built those temples then - Cathedrals to worship yourselves in?
            O what could you feel of his experience in your central heating?
Could the tortured limbs of a desert night reach you over the smell of floor polish?

My eyes see past despair. Dry marbles / scanning the faint gray beneath my door. The smell of my shit is like an unhealed wound - / the floor is caked in the shit of dead women! - but at least it takes the chill off the stones / where I sleep, watching for death's scurrying tail across the floor ... but he never comes.

Winter comes.
            And to another brings a mottled blue reprieve from her belly's rats.

Summer comes.
            And sweating bloated corpses hail Eternity's parole ... but to me
he merely grins.

Rats scavenge: / Dogs gnaw: / Time sucks: / Scabs bleed: / Hands fail.

Based on reading France's Farmer's autiobiography Will There Really Be A Morning?
Words 6 vi 83: Music 21/22 vi 83

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