In a depression you write crap, that much is true. You need the manic state, feel your mind inflate. The genius verses are flowing like an artery of gold, you just have to dig, scribble or punch away, I must remember to write poetry when I am good. Store it for the bad times ahead. Instead, it bursts out in one explosion of sentences. I squander the good stuff, and when I am down, I produce trash. Bukowski used to drink him in a stupor. I miss the booze. Even the speed. They were writer’s aids, tools to sharpen the pen. Sobriety is a kind of dying. You relinquish that what gives you joy, willingly, unwillingly, because people demand it. Because you always fall. Because you vomit on your blanket. Because it will kill you. But a long live expectancy was never my aim. I wanted fame, dying young having written a masterpiece.
Spare me the hallows. Keep your sword where it is. I choose how I die, six million ways they say, choose one. I want to die around midnight, the final minute before the clock sounds twelve. Under a full moon, take the pills in the afternoon. Be at peace in the knowledge all will end. No one will mock you anymore, think your weird. No cold gaze, no giggling remarks. Eternal darkness, always your biggest friend, the concealer of flaws, tuck you in tight. The journey is long, it brings you to the other end of the universum.
Instead of suicide, commit regicide. Go out with a bang, kill a king and amaze them. But what did he do to you? He was born in a high position, his whole life directed, traveling to countries to set up trade. Visiting disaster sites, providing enough progeny, to fill six thrones with. He is rich, owns several domains. Actually, I am not mad at him, he is just the opposite of me. The high-born and the untouchable. I skulk in the night, my domain. The sun is my enemy. Daylight I shun. In the dark hues of night, I see and navigate, to write. It releases the pain from my soul, once I dream of a perfect poem. It isn’t a lack of trying.
The medication goes in, the joy of living out. What happens if you don’t remember how to smile? Everything is hard, intolerable. Long sighs are the only sound you still produce. The depression isn’t going away. The place where you are kept is dark, populated with white coats. A bed with restraints especially for the likes of you. And then there are the therapies. Mind-numbing, time-consuming waste. The food is terrible here, but you eat it, it’s better than a dozen pills.
I am condemned to find no proper people in my immediate environment. Only leeches and other bloodsuckers, who like money or free smokes. The most pathetic about this is, I let them, everything is better than to be alone. Of course, they discard you if they don’t need you anymore. Like a paper wrapper you float away with the wind, destination unknown. And your self-esteem sinks down, your heart hurts. But it makes you harder. You rely on yourself, become less talkative. In the end you are a creature made of stone, unbreakable.
I put on my fanciest costume, not immune for stress, but love is an antidote. I went to your abode. A knock on the door, her dad answered and yelled: ‘Ada, it’s Jimmy Moore.’ His daughter appeared, raven black hair blue eyes. I could only stare, wanted already to say my goodbyes. But I resisted the urge, took my paper trembling, it had taken me forever to these words assembling to a lovely church. ‘Dear Ada, you are a specimen rare, I lay my soul bare to you, for I long for your sweet lavender-scented embrace. You are leather, you are lace, sweet and tough, like it tender and rough. I can give you these things, we could have wings. I am but a pour poet, but I would be forever in your debt, if you went out with me.’
Ada smiled, she got all riled. ‘How romantic, your kind they don’t make anymore. I am sick of admirers who want to get in my pants, but your poem I adore.’ We went out. We kissed. Her parents objected, but it’s foolish objecting to genuine love. A year later we married. We had children with raven black hair and blue eyes.
Love is a cannibal Woman is a criminal She gave the hunger But man is the animal. She devours you with skin and bones, your soul she sucks up. When she is finished, she wants to break up. Preferably by a text message. Or a fancy lawyer, wanting halve your riches as alimony. I let myself be sterilized if I begin a romantic adventure. Women come from Venus. It’s a very hot planet, with toxic gasses. Men come from Mars, a red dust ball. Be aware for the opposite sex. It’s a golden reminder to stay out of trouble.
Some people talk like a manual, the annual visit of my nephew. He mumbles something about python, I should have that on my computer. It’s guilt of course. Because he got my comics, my PlayStation and my computer. He speaks in computer language. It’s really freaky. ‘Can I use your waste dispenser?’ he asked me. ‘My what?’ ‘The toilet, yes that’s what some call it.’ I am always glad as he leaves, especially because his attractive wife likes to cuddle. A man can’t be hugged enough, it releases oxytocin which makes you feel good. I know not much of computer programming but after eight intakes in the mental ward I am pretty well versed in the psycholanguage now.