Indebted To Spill

Still busy dodging people who are being dishonest with me. They’ve been lying to me for bare clock movements (time), but I’ve been letting their souls off the hook because I’m a nice kinda dude whose inner vibration mainly chimes to the reconciling/pacifying kinetic fluctuations of peace/goodwill. The bible says that we should not forgive someone seven times, but seventy seven times. I’ve been sussing them out by utilising one of my ‘Denzil’ tricks, which includes a gently mild violation of their personal space. Don’t worry, no one ever gets harmed. When I am certain that someone is observing me in my immediate surrounds, I go and stand directly behind them and pretend to be absorbed with interest about something imaginary on their shoulder. Then I whisper a romantic chat-up line into their ear canal, careful not to spatter them with warm spittle from my tongue. I’ve been thinking about applying lipstick and giving their neck tissue a bit of a beefy, but as of yet there’s no need for that. They soon scarper, relinquishing their normally trustworthy eagle eye.

People greet me in the pub. I respond with, “Not now thanks, I’m psychotic.” Just to give them a clear message that I’m not interested in their crappy small talk. Then they run away to tell the bar manager that I’m not well! Then the bar manager rings the police. The police ring the outreach team…

I’ve also been thinking of other ideas regarding the soft tissue of spying guys’ necks, but we’ll not go into it here, because it might get me arrested, like I’m always getting, all of the time. You don’t have to commit a crime to get nicked (especially if you’re me). I once was sectioned for ‘threats to kill’ for example. I only said that I was going to insert a spiky baseball bat up the nether regions of my ‘fav nurse’, twist it around, and then pull it back out. This was over the phone at said nurse while absent without leave from my very own tribunal. Of course I was joking, but it wasn’t funny on speakerphone to professionals arguing my future. I always crack forceful jokes when on the juice (ale). I was arseholed in a bus stop if I remember correctly. There was no need for the board’s reaction whatsoever. Dr Paul, chiefo quack, wasn’t impressed. Thought the bollocks of my poetry collection though.

We swapped poetry when I wasn’t running around tampering with electric and igniting uncontrolled fires. That’s what they routinely accuse me of. See, I can be placid. When I’m not a psychopath on hallucinogenic compounds bought for £50 on a rainy street corner by a joker who can’t even give me the correct amount of what I wanted. Always under what you asked for, and never too much, isn’t it, have you noticed?

The words, “Excuse me Mr Dealer Man, you’ve given me too much,” have never being spoken.

One poem was entitled, ‘Why Satan is More Powerful Than God.’ Another, ‘Why My Bathroom Is Dangerous.’ And, ‘Why Is The Bus Full Of Porn Stars?’ Sorry, but most of my poems start with a philosophical adverb.

He highlighted some of my proudest verse in bright yellow Sharpie and showed his psychiatric buddies. They included a judge, a councillor and a complete stranger who was oddly listed as one of my next of kin.

Like usual I was arrested by more coppers than you can shake a branch [at], [at] divvie past 3am in the supernat morn. Somewhere deep in the animal hour anyway. My estranged half-sister who I never see any longer calls it the witch’s hour. Her dad, or step uncle as I call him, calls it the wild b*stards hour. The ‘five oh’ bashed my double glazed front door down with what is it, the iron key or the big red key or the magic key or something they call it? It looks like a thick cylindrical cannon. If it’s been deployed for drugs or weaponry, or shoeboxes of laundered cash pound notes stored in the freezer, the time of action is usually 7am. If it’s a disengaging chump who’s swallowed his month’s supply of tablets in one handful and posing as an immediate high risk for possessing of golf clubs, it’s roughly 3.27am in the middle of the night.

I’ve decided that I’m not going to present them with an excuse to detain me anymore, although they don’t need one these days, they just make one up. I’m definitely not responding violently to any provocations in my vicinity (and boy are there plenty of those). I thought about carrying a minute, highly inventive shank around with me, and giving the swarming perps a little slash somewhere, like their lower backs or somewhere. I possessed one at all times on that brutal hospital wing I’ve just made the cut from (pun unintended), for strict measures of self-defence against hotheaded nurses who lived for ‘tying up’ patients (restrained, injected, isolation chambered). But no. I’m fighting back with calmness and solution-focused clarity, not bloodshed.

Phew. Tuff decision ‘dat. For an instant I wanted someone’s head on a spike. Can’yer blame me? I get demoralised and disrespected every time I turn around. Like a fool quick to rise to wrath I’ve recently been keen for going full-on into chaotic fighting mode with whichever jackass oaf numpty blockhead goofball steps in my way. KNOCKING DEMONS BANG OUT BLUD!!! If I stick my chest out some snitch or coward or other reports me for it though. There’s no point in reacting like that. I choose not to react, by giving very meticulous thought about how to respond, instead. Not sure I know the difference like! But it sounds better than swinging for someone’s eye socket.