On Being Broke

Broken inside but still ticking
No way of knowing
Where this train is going

So many dangerous words
Dangerous thoughts
Evil beckons slyly

Waiting
For a chance
To flower

Poison dripping
Patiently
Into my soul

I would have to save this whole awful world
To make a dent in my perfect wrongness

Or just go away
Quickly and quietly
Before doing any more harm

broken

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Fade to grey

I live at the intersection of The World and My Brain. It’s a really horrible area and I often dream of moving. Anywhere. But I can’t. It seems that by the time the world reaches me it has already been shredded and reassembled as pastiche. I reach myself along a similar route. Is there any other way?

Recently I fell off the production line. I thought, hey don’t stress, I’m a good product. That nice lady with the pink hair and brown teeth will pick me up, put me back in a free slot, and things will be as right as rain in no time at all. But she didn’t, did she? She deemed me faulty, broken, scrap. And next thing I know I’m down the chute, through the flap and landing unceremoniously in the garbage ready to be taken to the dump. Down in the dumps am I now. It’s shocking. How it happened so quickly. And finally. An obedient and productive product with satellite TV and beer in the fridge one day and an obsolete extraneous shadow the next.

I carried a couch down to the intersection. It was once a proud new couch that lived in a suburban duplex. It’s become a bit tatty. Frayed around the edges. Is coated in a layer that was once dust but has now fused with the fabric of the couch. There are years of dust and dirt that have fused with the fabric of my mind so I feel a certain tenderness towards the silly old couch. And in any case it’s my bed now. Which I made and now lie in it. The artist formally known as Dave on the dusty couch just a few feet from a very busy intersection. Bowie and now Prince. Fuck. That’s a lot of unsayable stuff for me right there.

I told my Doctor that I don’t do much punctuation these days. Just tumble down the stream of consciousness with no time for semicolons. She has a couch with lots of fluffy pillows and some really neat plastic at the foot end so I don’t even need to take off my shoes. She has a room that has no dust. I think it’s a holy room so the dust just kinda stays away. Out of respect. I sometimes cut fromĀ her wooly dentist’s couch to my sad entropically compromised couch at the intersection. This is called a hard cut in the trade. And it is. Like when a soft pink finger meets a sullen rusty blade.

When I’m on her couch I don’t feel like a product. I know I’m there for a serious operation but I feel so ….. human, perhaps. She cuts into me so slowly, so tenderly, as if her scalpels are made of silk. And she doesn’t even mind the blood. It’s literal blood. I mean a stream of bloody words, that she collects and studies. I think she’s investigating antidotes. Or perhaps making a huge installation that needs lots of different shades and types of blood. There is nothing even vaguely vampirical about her though. She has a transcendental beauty about her. It’s a beauty that soothes while she cuts. There is something the opposite of beauty that cuts when it soothes but I haven’t given it a name.

Hush now baby, baby, don’t you cry.
Mother’s gonna make all of your nightmares come true.
Mother’s gonna put all of her fears into you.

Next to my couch, at the intersection, I have an old compact disc player stereo cassette recorder. That’s actually what you will see when the camera zooms in. Sometimes the music supervisor likes to combine sound and visuals in evocative ways. I’ll be thinking about S…..n but hearing So long Marianne. Or you’ll see me on the couch in the rain being covered slowly by a layer of soot and dust and hear There was joy there was fun. The music director trades in Blasphemous rumours and, yes, does have a sick sense of humour.

I told the Doctor that I regress at the drop of a hat. She wanted to know if my father wore a hat. I do love her but she has the silliest notions. She suffers from Pareidolia. A particularly nasty Freudian strain of the bug. I think she knows this but bears her burden with dignity. Being a spiritual burden it does not affect her posture. The editor removes thoughts that are bad for my blood but sometimes a saucy allusion gets through. He, the editor, trades in allusions. Arranges them rhythmically and sometimes allows them to copulate but only just under the surface.

I have several conflicting operating systems and they’re all full of bugs. Not just bugs but years of malicious code too. Sometimes when I get to temporally or psychologically close to saying the unsayable my system crashes or freezes. At times like these I console myself with knowing that one day I will be able to leave. There is an Urban Security Specialist who walks the beat past my couch everyday. He reminds me that No one here gets out alive. I call him Jim. I say, ok Jim, but the sweet water of death will take me to the sea. I dream of returning to the sea. Mother gave me sugar water when I bumped my head but that’s not pertinent here at all.

The Producer wants me to wrap this up. It’s a pity because I don’t have much to do today besides talking to pigeons and picking at scabs. There was something I wanted to say though. An unsayable thing become horribly important. Fuck. It’s gone. It’s hiding under an endless accretion of dusty words. I see people everywhere and I sometimes sob because I fear that some of them may be as lost as me. As scared and confused and lonely and cold as me. And I’m worried that the movie will end on this sour note and will be a flop. Will be unwatchable. That’s is a very real fear – that the movie of my life will be unwatchable, book unreadable, series cancelled.

Fade to grey….

Couch-on-Street

Evil Words

I think I broke something
Something fragile and precious
That existed between us

I felt that we were drifting apart
But perhaps that was just me
Sinking back into myself

I saw signs of your cruelty
And carelessness everywhere
Or was that just my narcissistic paranoia?

And all may well have been alright
May have turned out alright
If I’d kept my mouth shut

But I let evil into the world
Fearfully, carelessly, selfishly
Again

And we can never be
Innocently trusting
Again

arundhati

See Me

Under the guise of Nakedness
I am as cold as a razor blade
And darkly opaque
Vanishing slowly as only a seasoned exhibitionist knows how.

You said, hurriedly, towards the never-ending ending
That perhaps your own absence had a taste

It tastes like comfort exploding so slowly
That only my soul feels it at all.

But down deep we are strangers
Dangling our toes in the cool dark water near the shore
Of a darkly dreaming inter-subjective abyss

There is no center
No resting point in the dance of desperate signification
Just endless broken clones
Godhead shattered
Purity infected
Sanity sanitized and become a new toy of the mad

I like it when you see me
I like the fact that you want to see me
But this quagmire Freudian cozy swampy couch
Swallows me faithfully
And you circle like a dove or a vulture
In your straight-backed precocious chair

This ramble
More than the rest
Means just about nothing – or everything
But thank you for going on the journey with me

dream_2a6e7e9873 (1)

Mushroom Steak Royale

Mushroom Steak Royale

I made the above bite for a friend. He loved how as he was eating it the director added some special effects. So he shouted for a camera. My friend that is. Because nothing is real if it isn’t posted.

I just like blood and bright colors so I played along.

Then he got very excited about product placement – and ransacked the room for Red Bull, Bic, Black Label and Mushroom Flavoured Dark Soy Sauce. I never did discover who and how we were going to bill. My idea of product placement is – sit the fuck down and eat the steak before it gets cold šŸ™‚

The whole scene, for no good reason, got me thinking about life as product placement in an existential space. That is largely mental and solipsistic. Until social media turns every egomaniac into a fearless broadcaster of deep and meaningful shit.

elbowtoe_urinal_unurth

Episode 2 to follow – need to place some nice ice cold Zamalek strategically in my belly.

Disconnected

metoo
I thought this must be loneliness
This pressure of a thousand tears
Pressing against my eyeballs
With no release in sight

I thought it might be depression
This dull gloomy thought
That connects with every other
Dark and dreary idea

Or maybe anxiety
That’s boiling my blood
Buzzing my ears
And rattling my bones

But it’s a loneliness beyond the comfort of company
A depression beyond the reach of joy
A panic that can’t be calmed

I think that
In the midst of all this interconnection
I’m stillĀ sad, anxious, alone
AndĀ lost

Like a plug without a socket
In the great machine of life
In the midst of universal love
I am disconnected

Meaning, madness and shite TV

out-to-get-you-paranoia-fear-eye-government-demotivational-posters-1294788273

“A casual stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything.” Friedrich Nietzsche

“Have you ever fallen into a mental space where even the slightest detail seems excruciatingly overburdened with meaning?”

That’s just the typical jargon riddled silliness that I’d come to expect from my friend and sometime persecutor Umberto Vlok (aka Big Jim)

But, being of a sensible disposition, especially since the course of electro shock therapy that I got at half pice in Panama, I felt obliged to nudge Big Jim back towards a semblance of sanity.

“Ja, nee, ou maat – it happened once when I confused the dosage of my valium, thorazine and TicTacs – think it was those blerry TicTacs that done it!”

“But have you never thought that we are surrounded by meaning, tips, intimations of a world that actually makes sense?”

“Ummmm not really – not since arriving on this planet. I once believed in fate but my pot smoking lesbian neighbors cured me of that.”

Anyway we rambled on in a similar vein for some time before the tannie at the next table intervened.

“Jislaaik maar julle twee kan sommer lekker kak praat – why don’t you go home and watch the Rugby like good Safricans!” (Geez you two can talk a lot of crap …….)

I did go home but instead of the Rugby decided to watch a particular episode of Only Fools and Horses for the 17th time certain that I’d missed something important the other 16 times. But my mind had started drifting to matters of deep and dark significance –

  1. Isn’t it better to die living than it is to live dying?
  2. If I do cut my ear off would I be better able to sell my series of 213 portraits of my favorite toothbrush?
  3. I better find my life’s work soon – before I get fired from my day job
  4. Why did the lady at the till give meĀ thatĀ look?

I was starting to panic – had Umberto infected my brain with some evil nanovirus? What if I really am supposed to make a difference in my job, save the company, save the world, invent a new and improved toilet seat?

I reached frantically for the remote, which was sinisterly just out of reach, Ā and started flicking manically through the channels in desperate need of solace and salvation.

Shit – no Top Gear, Masterchef, American Restoration – shit not even Storage Wars.

I was beginning to sweat – my mouth was dry and my stomach filled with wasps (much worse than butterflies).

Then in that last terrible moment before falling into the abyss I had an epiphany – I didn’t need to go mad. I could regain control. I was flooded with a feeling of pure joy as I took my steel capped safety boot off and threw it with all my might at the TV.

Woooooohooooo – fuck DSTV, I’m bigger than that. I’ll go play in the hills and valleys and shopping centres. I had found FAITH. I was bigger than TV.

When the nice men came to take me away they gave me a nice big injection and just as I was drifting off the man tightening the straps said:

“Don’t worry Bru – there’s a TV right above your bed!”

AAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH