I barricaded the door,
Screaming, lurching,
Gripped by myself,
Fear searing through every fibre,
Desperation tearing apart my soul,
My eyes and heart on fire.

I screamed loud,
You heard me but couldn't reach me,
Because I didn't want to be reached.
Or did I?

I smashed the glass,
Drew the shards across my wrists,
Slipped under, as warm blood poured down my arms,
Searching for sweet release.

In the haze I heard you knocking,
Then banging, then screaming.
Sirens in the distance,
Then closer.

Noise; a saw maybe.
Loud bangs,
Bright lights.
Beeps.
Beep, beep, beep.

I saw myself on the table,
Surrounded by doctors,
My body a ****** mess,
The green line becoming weaker,
Then flat.

As a child they said that you go to hell,
If you *******, or hurt other people,
Or if you hurt yourself.

It's the only thing that kept me alive so long.

When I returned from the dead they told me to get help;
The church, doctors, charities,
Be mindful, watch the world,
Relax, meditate,
Get better.

But there's no getting away from yourself,
And when you're this broken you can never be fixed.
Not by anybody else, not by yourself;
Not even by those who love you.

And so I sit here, again.
The door locked, more secure this time.
The glass sits on the shelf next to me,
Ready to be broken.
I know to be silent, not to scream,
Not this time,
But to silently slip under without saying goodbye.

It's selfish, I know, to find peace for myself,
And to leave others screaming,
My friends, my family, my children,
But they don't know this pain,
Only I do,
And I know it has to end.
Maybe then, they can stop worrying,
Move on with their lives,
Forget about this 300lb weight they were carrying,
Which was causing them to sink,
A millstone, not a man.
A failure who was supposed to provide,
Make things better,
But who instead destroyed everything.

I feel calm, not terror;
My hand doesn't even shake as I write this note;
Yet I don't even know why I write.

A pause? Clarity?
A goodbye?
Perhaps all three, but defintely not a cry for help.
I've cried all my tears.
Unrepentent, yet sorry for everything,
This is, without question, the end.
Adiue.
Perhaps all three, but defintely not a cry for help.

.seems like the asian dub foundation lyrics came true: the lunatics will lead the blind... counter-metaphor, like i don't know how the mainstream doesn't exploit ascribing metaphors akin to psychotic or schizoid to slander their fellow "sanity" hives... and then, there comes a snippet, a mini-apocalypse of a one-man "army"... conflating a genuine Hippocratic observation, with your usual casual slander in all things politico: including journalism... i guess that calling someone dumb / plain outright scheming is not enough... oh but the genuine examples scare people... for all the criticism of Muhammad... ha... ha ha? he was awfully fond of lunatics, maybe i misread this, but i'm pretty sure sort of content is ascribed to the hadith... my allegiance? to the language, this is true, on other matters... hit or miss... cherry picking... the usual... in terms of England? what's there to subvert, when everything has already been, subverted? ****, bad grammar... maybe that's what can be subverted, that last bastion, oh, wait, that's also gone with the whole pronoun debacle... about time to play the Pontius Pilate role... but instead of a maddened crowd of hebrews, there's that small matter, of an enraged crowd of grammar-fetish-nazis... rigid, rigid as ****, you couldn't find a dried out piece of horseshit as rigid as this... and i'm not even a native... going out to nightclubs on either a friday or saturday used to be fun, until, this culmination of events... yawn... no, no... this is where i get to punctuate my sentences in an excess of erraticism; well: any counter to the overtly eroticißed currency / culture... if anyone told me to fixate my attention of linguistics, i'd be like: give me a break... gone are the days when a homosexual could scribble something as curiosity-worthy as a william burroughs... well: if we reached a fundamental plateau point of inertia... it would take someone from... Gomorrah... to talk about all that slobbering over sea food juice, from the flowery pattern of a *******'s *****; and that would be me.

don't ask me, how, or why,
maybe i should get in touch with
some of the airline pilots,
maybe they'd believe me,
or perhaps to anyone in close
geographical proximity,

   let's say i'm sitting on the porch,
smoking a cigarette,
mentally lacerating myself
over an outburst of unfathomable
anger requiring me to do something,
which i nonetheless do,
but the whole fiasco of a tirade
wasn't necessary...
         and... with my rigid
ontology, i repent,
    i go a step further,
            i think up all the standard
negative thinking,
  
   to a point where
the word banal,
         mingles with the word
benign...
       at this point
           these words are being
drilled into my psyche,
   they become static,
   and obstruct any decency
of a cognitive narrative...
           benign becomes a negative
word,
      somewhat closely alligned
in spelling to banal -
   well...
                        as close as B
goes...
                   strange...
how thought has to process
feeling,
      and how feeling:
    rarely processes thought...
just your standard cartesian
"quadratic paradox":
yes, perhaps a misnomer,
but err:          into air quote,
there's always a nuance
to be minded,
   and a misnomer cipher
usage...
                              i.e. metaphor...

so i'm doing all of that,
   and then...
            you'd have to be in
my vicinity to see this,
    and a night sky...
   so the stars are there,
fixed points in their constellations,
or some outliers...
then you spot one appear
in the sky, and move
in a straight line,
         a slightly dim star...
copernicus:
     but i thought stars
weren't supposed to do that?

and then? a star so brightly lit,
also moving in a straight line,
so, so bright,
   and as it moves into the distance,
it starts to wane,
fade...
    a plane flies in its direction,
i'm strapped to the earth,
but i'm hopeful
    that the airline pilots
have also spotted it...

                this is not supposed
to happen...
   i don't know if i'm freaked
out, or just used to it,
years prior, i did my occasional
star-gazing...
   somehow detached
from the usual curiosity of men,
i knew that i hard to return
to the hierarchy of metres,
miles and centimetres etc.,

          someone else did,
whatever they did,
   to orientate themselves with /
around, the current capacity
of communication,
    but no one could say:
the guy who created the piano,
     could play like a Schumann -

my predicament comes
with this language,
      acquired, self-taught,
   perfected,
                i remember the day
i was thrown into a class
   at primary school,
   mute...
          cartoon network wasn't
exactly a teacher back
in post-communist Poland
in the early 1990s...
  
          i was... without a play
on words: thrown into the deep end,
told: ******, now tread water.
  i still sometimes help my parents
with legal paperwork,
  but i'm content that they
managed to... **** me...
    me, holiday, to the Maldives?
hard work, i almost enjoyed
doing roofing on an industrial
scale sized roofs...

             now, i drink,
and if i didn't...
   i'd writing with a sense of
urgency that's more erratic than
imbued with a sense of urgency
of, imminent death,
  and i'd be running paranoid,
7 trips back and forth
between London and Edinburgh
and Glasgow in a short period
of time,

        then to Athens,
           brief interludes of calm
like a trip to Venice...
   mind you: if the diagnosis
is correct, i.e. psychosis,
and for all that time,
  i didn't behave like your
tragedy psychotic,
               well...
               is that... responsibility?
the knowledge of a condition,
tamed,
    rather than walked into blindly...

apart from the usual
historical literature,
                       what could possibly
top philosophy as a genre
of literature?
          d'uh... theoretical psychiatry...
notably from the 1960s...
precisely because:
    prior to that time reference?
psychiastric conditions
were, grotesquely enough -
                      luxury ailments or...
the other kind,
         the ones were they throw
you into the asylum
      and... god knows what...
now?
            they drug you...
  pacify you...
                        but what if there's
still something hidden
within you,
                               to counter?

i probably the only smarter
thing available...
                      if i didn't turn to
philosophy...
        or psychiatric literature...
yes, it would take you a decent
3 years to read the two volumes
of Kant's critique of pure reason,
to be able to move forward
your own narrative,
   without having to: read it,
only in order to regurgitate /
teach it...

                   no one is going to talk
Kant to you,
    you will, most likely,
be talked Kant to you / taught,
yes, more like taught rather than
talked (down)...

                 for all the sins of alcohol
consumption,
   well: what other sedative
is there within the same price-range?
i'll always be unrepentent
about the drinking,
           how much of a *******
******* would i have to be,
     to repent for something
that, somehow, clarifies my head
and allows me to
spew out, something akin
to this?

            no, stars aren't supposed
to do, what they did,
and keep on doing,
        in my presence...
   only one person has shared
this spectacle with me,
my grandfather...
   'for the stars to be moving?!'
just my luck,
   that he suffers from
a mild dementia...
           cul de sac of convincing
someone...
    so back to the secular
game of juggling negation,
and lying -

     at least doubt can mingle
with belief,
   at least doubt
       is, akin to belief,
   a plethora of emotions;
i never understood the criticism
of emotion,
   esp. in the secular west,
i just can't turn into
   some emotionless
apathy-zombie,
    or some,  brain
and a spinal cord in
a ******* pickle jar,
semi-autistic:
but that still implies
   channeling your emotions,
rather than giving into
outright, shallow and not
premeditated calculation.

I will never forget her words.
Of sheer glass screeching against the world.
Of atrocities whose gravity.
Is inexorable.

Once that blade of silence enabled her to catch.
The thief's neck unaware.
She sent his lifeforce rolling down a valley.
Of prevented crimes.

Halted descent to gaze into pools of red,
Falling from one inhuman reservoir to the next.
She joyfully played with a life less than illegitimate,
Giggling soulless and unrepentent,
At the profanity of it all.

Without dignity to hold her back.
When logic tried to stop her from.
Taking it back.
Janet she,
Pressed purpose to reason's concern.
Revealed psychosis and told me,
No.

With a plain face and quivering smirk,
I was pushed back with an emptying ****.
He's still there, still alive and well,
I'd like to not be as such.

Hidden inside our new home of black and red.
Caught by lyrical promises sang by a once comely ally.
Turned fat idiot by serpent's slaughter.
Toblin's other vassal was spotted.
Grinning accomplice or not he was.
Spotted.
Recognized.
Slaughtered.
In the aforementioned manner.

Let us bear witness to arm and blindfold...
each candidate for president of United States
and therefore witness a duel (to the death)
between Biden and Trump to determine
who occupies Oval Office as forty seventh
Chief executive of the federal government.

Since both the Democratic and Republican contenders
for prospective commander in chief offer pathetic odds
evening the prospect of the latter or former winning an
unequivocal fair and four square bilateral contest firing
a gun after being positioned back to back, then counting
of so many paces before turning around and facing off.

Neither combatant could be identified, cuz head to toe
bullet proof vests would encapsulate every square inch
of vulnerable flesh rendering incognito dead giveaway
characteristics, and a wig would don their numbskull
at a given signal communicated thru bluetooth headset
high powered firearm cocked and raised ready to aim
at opponent instantaneously caught in the crosshairs

premature ejaculations punctuated sound of silence, a
mortally wounded wimp versus over stuffed ego freezer
also suffering a fatal shot as madding crowds roar with
deafening frenzied ballistic approval atavistic gone ape
primal screaming decreeing spoken explosion of anarchy.

All hell broke loose likened to burst dam where humanity
witnessed annihilation into balkanization into capitulation,
disintegration into evisceration, into factionalization, into
horrification into insubordination into jubilation, liquidation
into militarization into nullification into obliteration into
promulgation, radicalization, tribulation, and veneration.

Suddenly out of bedlam deft ferocious hoodlum jump/kick
started linkedin nationalistic predation rebranded travesty
vocalizing xenophobia zealously attracting craven egocentric
gambling inimitably kleptomaniacal, mercurial, opportunistic
quixotic, sensational uber wordsmiths reductio absurdum
expostulating non-sequiturs endowed with hidden wisdom.

Though ordinarily a non violent (unrepentent punster to boot)
amazingly graceful aging hippie even while in utero I played
role of embryonic peace monger – marching within the womb
despite the cramped quarters, especially as I got closer to term
and occupied avast area of the ******, my mother participated
in numerous rallies exposing me to socially progressive events
no surprise when yours truly babbled on about revolutionaries.