dark am i, yet lovely, a lily among thorns, majestic as stars in procession

dark am i, yet lovely, a lily among thorns, majestic as stars in procession

Wednesday, 23 November 2016

Case Closed

I just lost at a manger’s hearing. Been waiting ages for it. It’s like a court appearance. There are big wigs, a doctor, clinicians, and a solicitor present. Plus me, of course. Some people don’t even go in, but I like to try and put my point across. Meetings like this provide the best chance of getting off the section. The big wigs access all the ‘evidence’. As far as I know, there is not a shred of evidence to support any kind of any mental illness (this is why I rank psychiatry as up there with religion in the Bullshit Premier League). Okay, I did nearly throw myself off Runcorn bridge, but that was eighteen months ago. They’re acting like it was yesterday. They’ve detained me ever since. 99.9% of my time in hospital, I’ve been perfectly well. Mentally sound. Yet still they find reasons for detention. That’s their job – to keep you in. To your face, they’ll tell you that they want you to move on and be happy on the outside. The way they talk against you in these meetings shows that this is not the case. It’s difficult to comprehend why anyone would want another person incarcerated when it doesn’t affect them in the slightest, and no crime has been committed. It’s more humane to let someone go and leap off a bridge. Who’s the state to say you can’t do yourself in? No, they’d rather keep you alive on a locked ward, spoon-feed you experimental drugs, and write negative comments behind your back every day. Oh yeah, that’ll make me want to live again. They think that I’m hallucinating noises from the neighbours. That’s like me telling you that you’ve been hallucinating going to work for the last three years. Maybe I’ve been hallucinating my whole existence then. Maybe I’m still in the womb and this is all a bad dream. They said that gangstalking is an unusual belief > I’m delusional. The Flying Spaghetti Monster is an unusual belief. The actual gangstalkers must be pissing themselves. At least someone’s happy. I wish I never mentioned the topic, but I used to be so naive that I thought the truth might mean something in this world. They load the truth into their guns and shoot you with it. Because I’ve missed the odd night taking their ‘magic’ pills (maybe if they actually worked then everyone would be cured), they use their non-compliance card at every available opportunity. And they will not give it a rest about their injections. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve said, “No, final answer.” Chris Tarrant accepts that first time, on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire – he doesn’t keep repeating the question to make the contestants change their mind.

I did make idle threats once, that much is true. What do you think a reasonable punishment is for making idle threats? Forget that I was joking because I have a perverse sense of humour, and let’s just say I was serious. There must be a law somewhere. How many times do you hear people saying they’re gunna do this and they’re gunna do that, when they’re pissed up at the weekend in general arguments outside pubs and clubs? The police are too busy for that stuff. Christ, the things that gangstalkers say to their victims! Holy Mother of God. In a just world, these big wigs would be discussing how much compo was due to me, not how long they plan on taking my liberty for. Not only that, but they want my home as well. They want me ‘looked after’ in supported living. They’re beginning to bang on about this with as much zest as they bang on about injections. They’re punishing me (you’re mistaken if you think the system is there to help – that’s the equivalent of saying that religion is there to help you go to Heaven), for mistakes I’ve not made yet. It’s all about ‘potential risk’. High risk this, historical risk that. Basically, another way of saying that I’ve done sod all wrong. They’re like a futuristic pre-crime syndicate. Last time they sectioned me, they had a police car waiting outside. I don’t know what they were anticipating I might do. I think they might have me confused with Joe Pesci. They also think I have poor insight into the imaginary illness that I don’t even have. How’s that for a low blow? Firstly, we’re gunna tell you that you’re afflicted by something that doesn’t exist, and secondly we’re gunna further condemn you for not knowing anything about this thing that doesn’t exist. It’s like an armchair supporter saying that Pogba doesn’t know anything about football. Pogba’s the one playing it every day. That supporter’s probably never been on the field of play in his life. I’m the one going through this, so I think it’s probably safe to assume that I know ten times more about it that someone who isn’t. When they have stayed up long nights on end researching what is actually going on in society outside of their textbooks, then maybe I’ll take them seriously. Until then, I can’t even fight back. I’ve got to bend over and ask them to be gentle while tongue-tied. I should mention knives as well. I want to make this crystal clear. The only time I have ever reached for a weapon is in a desperate last-resort mindset of self-defence, in extremis. If you were getting as many death threats and break-ins as me, I’d be inclined to bet that you might even do the same. It’s provided a small illusion of safety and comfort, that’s all. It’s not as if I brandish it about in Asda, looking for an excuse to use the thing. I can’t imagine ever using it. But hey, he reached for something to defend his life with while in mortal danger, so that proves he’s a psycho! Case closed! I’d say this is contradictory to basic rationality. A true psycho doesn’t reach for a weapon...

Sunday, 20 November 2016

Hello God. What Would You Have Done Differently?

For starters, I wouldn’t have spawned so many solar systems. The universe, in its entirety, is an utter waste of space. What I should have done is create plenty of aliens to keep the human race company, but I forgot. Actually, truth be told, I didn’t forget – I just couldn’t be arsed. So they don’t exist, I’m afraid, take it from me. All those strange lights you people see in the sky are simply your own secret military experiments. Militaries are your biggest employers. Yeah, even larger than Tesco. Secondly, I wouldn’t have brought to pass so many starving carnivores. I’ve lost count of the amounts of revolting species I’ve invented. I was on one. Call it a mad lab experiment. There are thousands of types of arachnid alone. I knew straightaway that those things would send a shiver up your spines. Haha! My babies. I was simply pissed off when I produced snakes and scorpions and rats and bats and big cats. If you think power is corrupting, then try to imagine what eternity does to oneself.  I just wanted to terrify you, for giggles. I wondered what it would be like to have strong things demolish weak things, with zill chance of survival, and then eat them, alive. You can’t beat watching something getting eaten alive early in the morning. The Romans understood. I particularly relish observing things run for their life. There’s something awesome about the thrill of the chase. And just so you know, I rejoice in myself when the hunted get away. See, I’m not completely bonkers. Thirdly, I wish I would have put eyes in the backs of your heads. You guys need ‘em. You’re mostly a bunch of two-faced back-stabbing liars. I cannot believe what you do to each other! I don't do that to the other Gods. I’ll be made up on the day when someone flushes their own brains down the toilet on YouTube. That’s what I’m rubbing my hands together for. Alright, okay, I made you lot in my own image, but c’mon, what the hell have you become? I’ll ask you again – what the f**k is wrong with your kind? Why didn’t you listen to my Only Son? His name is Jesus. Can I get an Amen? Also, I wouldn’t have made your craniums so big. You’re too bloody clever for your own bloody good. Take the internet, for example. Now, thanks to fibre optics, anyone can know anything about anything. Excuse me, but I’m supposed to be the omniscient one here! Maybe I shouldn’t have given innocent children bone cancer, but hey, I was having a bad aeon. The same goes for coldsores, toothache, and athlete’s foot. Please forgive me: I’ve already forgiven you. Didn’t you hear? I sent my Only Begotten Son: Lord of Lords, King of Kings, Prince of Peace. And still you sick bastards nailed him to a cross. Romans again. My very biggest mistake however was Bernard Matthews. That man has slaughtered so many fine birds. Don’t worry folks, there IS justice in the Afterlife, and I can personally assure you that he’ll be flappin’ in Turkey Hell! G.  

Saturday, 19 November 2016

Wednesday, 16 November 2016

Upchucky Valentine

I’d just bumped into this girl right, and she was a babe. Older than me, but still a babe. Not quite a cougar, she was too cute for that, but nonetheless still foxy in her own magnetic way. We’d met in the library, and kind of both stopped in our tracks when casting eyes on each other. It wasn’t love at first sight, I’m not sentimental enough to even believe in that, but it was something at first sight. I’m not sure what, maybe some sort of soulful recognition, but it registered with us both, I could feel it. An awful lot of energetic vibrations can occur within visual contact, and when our eyesight collided, a mild tremor occurred inside our spirits.
A week later I was knocking on the front door to her big house. She seemed really delighted to see me. There was an awkward moment when we just idled in the hallway; I suspected she might want a kiss, but my shyness failed me and the moment passed. I thought it an opportune time to reveal the card I’d prepared for her. I’d bought a calligraphy set and handwritten it especially. The thing had taken me hours. She accepted it with a courteous bow. “This is my son,” she said then, introducing me to a lumbering teenager who grunted at me in greeting. Fine, I thought – not what I was expecting, but I could live with it. “Hi matey,” I said. “How’s it going?” Another grunt.

We made our way through into the kitchen. The place began to feel like home already. There was a table set up with rose petals scattered all over the cloth and a bottle of wine on ice in the middle. Candles too. She asked me to take a seat, which I did, and then she attended to the oven, extracting a large precooked fish. My heart sank. I hate fish. As a general rule, I tend not to eat anything that is looking right back at me. “This is gorgeous,” I said, when we started to tuck in, but on my very first bite a felt a bone lodge in my throat. As soon as I felt it get stuck I knew it wasn’t going anywhere for a good while yet. It seemed to hook into the flesh. I tried hiding my coughs and did my best to ignore it, hoping more food would remove it on the way down. It never did. She offered me some wine, which I gulped just a little too eagerly, raising an eyebrow from the teenager. Two glasses later, and it had gone straight to my head. The taste of the skanky fish was making my stomach do somersaults. I excused myself to use the bathroom.

And it was in there where I took a distinct turn for the worse. The walls and ceiling started to spin. Soon I was holding onto the bog for dear life. I heaved, I convulsed: I convulsed, I heaved. I splattered the bowl with thick vomit. Chunks got trapped in my throat, making me gag and choke. I thought I would feel better once the first load was up, but it seemed to be never-ending. I was a projectile machine. The sickly feeling wouldn’t go away. The taste of the bitter wine and regurgitated fish were self-perpetuating themselves on my palette. I chucked and chucked again. Make no mistake, I was in the third circle of hell. Worse than any of it, I knew they could hear me downstairs. I knew this was the ultimate, ultimate insult to her generous effort. “It’s not your fault,” I mumbled under my breath. I started waffling, in a desperate bid to distract myself from what was happening. Now she would think I was a headcase as well as an ungrateful pig, but I couldn’t help it. “The meal was great,” I said. “The wine was nice…” Talking to myself.

Eventually, she came up to see if I was okay. I must have been there for the best part of half an hour. She bent down beside me with her hand on my shoulder. I’d stopped chucking up, but still felt unable to move away from the shitter. The night was over, in my mind, but she said I was welcome to stay. She’d prepared a bed, with more rose petals and candlelight. “I wanted to kiss you,” I said, “but I guess I missed my chance.” Who in their right mind wanted to swap spit with a guy who had just been puking? “It’s not a problem,” she replied, “just brush your teeth first. I’ll be waiting in the bedroom.”

Is right! I was in! I stood up, dusted myself off, and popped a male enhancement pill!
[The fish bone remained in my throat for 9 days. The relationship lasted 4 years.]

Based on true events © Zombie Publications 2016

Saturday, 12 November 2016

Friend or Foe, Explanation

The face on this cover belongs to the Australian actress Abbie Cornish (ordinarily she looks quite fit). It’s a traced sketch of a screenshot from the movie Sucker Punch (2011), although she might be better known for the movie Limitless in the same year. In the flick, she’s in an asylum: In the book, which came first, she’s also in an asylum. She communicates with the main character, Toby Thomas, through his dreams. Toby (name of my childhood pet by the way) believes he has a microchip in his head, implanted there by his so-called friend’s father, Wrench Senior, Sire of the Archfiend, and which may account for all the zany stuff in his life. The book is an exploration of the human psyche, warts and all. A lot of it was dream logs, hashed together. I wrote it in 74 non-consecutive days while in custody (along with some poetry), completely clean, back in ’07, almost ten years ago now. All of my subliminal subconscious was revealed to myself, and the hand-written manuscript turned out to be an almost on-the-button premonition of how my actual life would unfold. The damn thing, ahead of itself, was true. At the time, I thought I was making up fiction. The truth, though, is stranger than fiction (and that’s a fact – you can take that statement to the bank).

It reigned in at 52k words. Last year, I looked over it. Some works have lost the plot as they went on, but this didn’t have a plot to begin with. It did, however, make more sense towards the end. So what I did recently was halve it, cutting out all the dreamy parts. Still, after so many years to ponder, I couldn’t make complete sense of it. It requires a return re-read, re-draft, re-process, whatever you wanna call it. Somewhere in there, beyond a bucketful of surreal distracting imageries, is a realist conspiracy plot. No shit, I have to filter and sharpen that content to make it digestible, but I will, in time, endeavour towards this feasible outcome. Not quite yet, like, but it is on the ever-expanding to-do list. It was originally called The Violent Arsonist, because the girl on the cover, Plain Jane, is exactly that; some kind of mysterious, succubus, irresistible, loveable psycho. I pondered over the title Headspace Vs Cloak ‘n’ Daggers. I’ve settled on the title Friend or Foe, and just in case you are wondering, although I absolutely loathe and despise spoilers, the real-life hindsight 20/20 vision verdict is an utmost, and I mean utmost, most definitely, FOE. It’s a mean universe, people, to quote Richard Gere, in Brooklyn’s Finest (2011). But that’s not to say that I’m allergic to metaphysical happy endings, because I sure ain’t, even if they don’t take place in reality.

There’s a scene in which Toby has an OBE (Outer Body Experience), and he’s dragging himself along the floor. There’s a scene in which Plain Jane jumps off her top bunk and smashes her roommate’s head into the sink as he is brushing his teeth. There’s a scene in which the ballroom inside the asylum is full of apes with popcorn. There are flying ninjas and allsorts. Ah I don’t know – much of it is insane. It’s never been read. That’s why I’m remembering it now. I thought it was worth a mention. If the author can’t recall his own unread books fondly, then who the hell is going to? Answer: Nobody, it’s impossible. So this, until worldwide publication, is what thou hast to settle for. A fond recalling...and some energetic edits to do – perhaps on the ten year anniversary...you wanna buy, ha? Only 2p on Amazon...