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 never liked the cemetery where my grandfather is buried. The silence is deafening. People shuffle around between graves. I feel confined as if I was in a coffin myself. It was last autumn, the rain decided to ruin this trip to the final resting place of my childhood hero.
It was quiet on the graveyard. There was no living soul to witness. Suddenly, while I put flowers on my grandfather’s grave, I heard a moaning. It went over in a grunt. I turned quickly around. I got scared like never in my live before. There stood a walking zombie. It was once a woman. And she seemed hungry. I could probably outrun her. But I was paralyzed with fear.
She bit me in the hand. I immediately felt a sense of death. A shovel near me left by the gravedigger sufficed to behead her. But the evil was done. I used a handkerchief to bind the wound together. It kept stinging and bleeding.
Outside the cemetery there was a lot of traffic. I took the only reasonable decision before I turned. A sportscar came speeding around the corner, I threw myself in front of his tires.
I could have saved me the suicide attempt. I was already impervious to death. Grunting I stood up and attacked the driver who rushed out of his car to call an ambulance. I believe I ate his nose. I existed as a walking dead until a policemen shot me through the head on Park Avenue.
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 wake up at 4 am. Every day. That’s not too the liking of the nurses. They rather are indisturbed when they frolic with the nipples of their breasts and lick their pussies. I have nothing against some lesbian action if they don’t prevent me too smoke my much needed cigarette.
I am always glad I wake up. It’s the first gift of the day.
But that dorky little brunette with glasses as big as binoculars had to ruin the atmosphere.
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.