see... i don't like how mental illness
is portrayed by the media,
so much so, the labels:
loner, loser...
           esp. regarding the males
of this species...
   not my type of cup-cake -
or tea party...
             i hate to point this out:
but Muhammad had a heart of a Sufi
at times...
no... i can't defend Christianity
for, precisely their misunderstandings of
the negation of ease: their,
dißease flagellation...
   abhor it...
                 what the **** did the Pollacks
do to invent a medium of
            confinement -
so the bubonic plague didn't affect
the region of land i originate from?
how did they think up the concept oof
quarantine?
                       meßmerißing...
i once studied history at UCL with
the notion of writing a book about Jesus...
honest to god...
              but, come to think of it...
the peculiarity of Poland during the spread
of the bubonic plague...
        wet *****... i'm all over that ****...
thumb up my *** to, "supposedly" increase
my chances of an *******...
funny... that's funny...
never fails with prostitutes...
sure as **** worth a fiery *** after
greasing my tongue with a chicken curry
with extra chillies...
but, otherwise?
   if i am Oedipal....
i can't claim the Madonna-***** complex
for ******* "dysfunction"...
was i ever ******* a woman,
or merely an actress?!
     oh... right... psychosis...
people who never go mad preposterously
"think" that the faculty of
language disintegrates...
funny such people should make such claims...
my grandfather has dementia...
suffers from what dementia:
slavery unto long term memory...
but he can solve a crossword puzzle
like a 21 year old...
      i watch him, and listen to him,
lazing about on the balcony,
in a communist flat...
overlooking a graveyard...
that horror of western suburbia:
that? to be honest? isn't all that bad...
and i ensure myself with the role:
don't worry, you're here...
i'm here... we're here...
   i have to admit, his dementia
begot a hypochondria...
            the topic of ailment is his special
concern...
     i admit i prefer listening
to his childhood reminiscence of
the ᛋᛋ men in crow uniforms stationed
in my hometown...
              but thank **** it's not Alzheimer's...
always, like a dog, like a dog impromptu,
every, single, time i visit him...
if he had a tail?
  it would be waggling...
i'm also pleased to see him...
sometimes we watch t.v. together...
but mostly? i gorge on his personal library,
and sometimes admire his stamp-collection,
and walk the graveyard with him,
remembering:
lay me in the grave beside my grandfather,
also name Joseph...
        it's harsh to say this...
but i think i'll pull my hair out when
he dies...
   i used to cry like a baby over dead pets...
but when he's gone...
   i'll pull my hair out,
curse my shadow...
  shadow-stab my heart,
and then gnash my teeth so i chip off a piece
from one,
and then stalk the freshly dug grave,
and insert that chipped tooth-piece
into the soil...
      subsequently performing
a mantra for the moon, that scythe,
    that echo of the earth i am to stand on,
at that particular moment in time.
- i already said that psychosis is
underrated as both a quasi-hallucinogen
and a medical condition...
a typical LSD trip? 12 hours...
but a psychosis "trip"?
    2 years... relapse... 2 more years...
i came out of my psychotic trance
in my mid twenties...
              years: not hours...
so do i believe in god?
  impersonal, sure...
        which is a sort of antithesis of
the monotheistic personal god...
       do humans possess a soul?
   i own a body, i own a thought...
a psyche?
        people who have never experienced
psychosis have no
"inconvenient" conceptualization
of the prime basis of psychosis,
i.e. a soul, i.e. **** ex machina...
man, out of the machinery,
he, himself, created, and enslaved himself
with, and in.

i love how Bukowski wrote
the perfect attache to this, "poem":

some people never go mad,
what horrible lives
they must live;

    well... "live" (in frank honesty
with no adherence to rank) -
          all these people do,
is endure the inconsequential
preemptive, is...

    while on the occasion
rummaging in the pointlessness of
the lesser nostalgia
of fathoming historical faults -
those ill begotten memories
within the confines of a hive,
or something akin,
more or less.