Schizoid Blues

[Kurt K]

Endless Life Asylum

vein like lsd scars on arms of lunatics shrieking into their pillows
pacing human larks chewing their tongues bloody aside from choking
down wallowing laughter in their gullets
pork belly sized beer guts as all day long drunks spit at wire
covered windows and stare their their dirty broken feet
weeping manic depressives lamenting the loss of their dope for days
only to re emerge into opiate blue tinted mornings of decayed teeth
seizures from piss poor wine snorting meth addicts furious in their restraints
dog eared naked psychotics wondering where their sanity went while looking
at the gourd sized cockroaching crawling in and out of the vents on the ceiling
me watching it all, an endless asylum circus for human crows pecking at rodent
eyes rotting in roadkill in the sun only to be crushed again strapped to a gurney
wires running from my minds eye to a television screen to be watched by
disinterested psychiatrists
bums comparing their broken, dirty and brown teeth, with broken noses and potted
cow manure lives from which nothing grows but more debris and offal to be shoveled
off the street with steel trays and community service pedestrians
soulless eyes stare at blue, white and yellow sunbeams reflecting light off of
starving, frozen snow, grey and dirty on the sidewalks and gutters
weeping, drug addicted mothers sobbing for the loss of their children in the wake
of addiction that could not for anyones life be coped with or supplanted by anything else
endless virginal laughter of pop culture teens wondering why their lives have so little
meaning in the wake of endless hours in video game pop music culture
as pointless and meaningless as the value in which their have assigned their own lives
will not be able to tell the difference between their own laughter and their own weeping
in a few more years
the hungry, for what hungry other than food, some sort of sanity, some sort of other
human being to acknowledge their meaningless place here, smile graciously at
plastic hospital food plates
I am watching it all from my steel plated bed, my padded walls, no sharp edges
nothing to save me but endless ceaseless incarceration, the only alternative to
be cast out in the blood boiling, soul sucking, skin burning acrid smoke of an
uncaring sidewalk to sleep on freezing in the winter, a permanent member of this
establishment, sees nothing out the window, and I don't care
the drunks, the addicts, the clowns, the whores, the junkies, the ageless children
wallowing in a displaced youth that has already gone like the leaves from the last
autumnal trees in the golden sun to be replaced by hateful biting winds through
shit saturated alleyways where bums find momentary salvation wait for the release
those who have made prisons out of their own insanity and have no hope for release
from that wait for pills, something to crack the skull of their madness and let out
all the shrieking ghosts and babbling insects that crawl on the inside walls
perverts of humanity so twisted by their own freaking wants and needs, their mind a sick
playground of sexual derison, depravity, endless memories and rants, wicked canticles
of the gnarled fist of youth, beat their sore meat untill all their sanity oozes out
onto their dirty thighs
bloodtests, and piss tests, the endless, ceaseless, doorless asylum has them all
and pills that will have you forget what your mothers face looks like
even if you are staring right at her picture
I watch it all, strapped down, wires in my brain, tubes in my arm and nose, and electrodes
attatched to my spine, they are playing the pictures in my head on the evening news
and the noose tightens
I will never get out, and I think to myself
this place ain't so bad

Corpuscle

he was a cut up vegetable, he did not know
from consent to rape, but up to this point in his life
believed his life to be an endless series of rapes
various in their type or degree
his eyes were glassy, and his unusually small head
was covered in bone scars from being beaten and falling
he heard voices, lots of them
he stumbled around town in a sort of dazed
completely numbed to pain and life
his name was the genius
he shoes were tattered rags, and as he stumbled to walk in them
his feet and legs knotted up
from time to time he would pause
stare at some unimportant piece in a landscape
and smile through rotten, crooked, broken teeth
when it got dark, he hadn't enough sense
to hide his vagrancy
and he was picked up as a kind of novelty act
as "someone who would do anything we wanted him to"
by coteries of dopers, addicts, children of well to do means,
drunks, psychoes, drug dealers, crack heads, etc.
he was picked up at dusk by a man and a small child
"are you the genius?" he asked
the childs eyes glowed as he listened, and genius
moaned and knodded
"drink this"
he was handed a bottle of drain opener
and drank some of it, gagging and remarking that it cleaned up
the phlegm in his throat better than a smokers cough
"that's what I like to hear, genius!" "yeah, yeah!"
the child panted and watched, gleefully as the genius beat his
head against the dashboard
"Be careful genuis, you might start something working in there!"
his brain was mush from too much drug and alcohal use
"Let's take him to the party" "yeah, yeah!"
the child panted and watched, his loose hair flapping about his shoulders
they drive to a deserted road, and into a loose area where a few fires burn
amoungst a few singing christians and several blasted thugs
drugs medicinal smell hung in the air like blood sated clouds of mosquitos,
and bottles of cheap hooch were passed around
the genius saw them and immediatly began to take part
as he did so, they laughed at him, struck him with fists, logs, and cut him with razorblades
all the while he laughed, enjoying the torment, the meaning their attention gave his
empty life
when they were through he lay choking in a puddle of his own vomit
"let's leave him here."
they said, departing the area with the freezing jesus shuddering in
pools of his own vomit
"you sick fuck, do you know how important you are?"
the voices in his head said, and he smiled,
cupped his hands to his neck, and closed his eyes smelling urine
saturated coals from the fires
all that gave him meaning in his life was the abuse
the attention, the hate, the amused looks on the faces
and the finger on the trigger was his
and looking up at the ominous grey clouds
"the lord and father loves me."
he said to himself
"the lord and father loves me more than he loves jesus himself"





let me know what you think.

do you remember me, nick morgan? my name is kurt.

[n.r.m.]

hey kurt.
where the hell you bin?
good stuff man, I'll send you an email.

[Coleen Shin]

so, are you really locked up somewhere kurt?


no censure, we all have crosses, some heavier than others.

drug addiction is a bitch kitty. I don't have an addictive nature
sheer luck probably. I'm grateful as I need and take pain meds
which by the way, the bastards habitually under prescribe.

it's hell to have a chronic condition in the climate of fear
and loathing dr's have for those of us with a pain problem.
I relate to what you write in the sense, pain is a prison
much like drug addiction is.

though pain will take a day off occasionally, oddly, it happens though.

[Kurt K]

I am locked up in my own insanity i think, from time to time. I kicked drugs when I was on probation for assault back in 2002-2004 and eventually went back to drinking 14 months later when a friend "suggested" I buy and take home a six pack of beer. Now I am trying to ween myself off of the stuff. Probation was hell for me- I did relapse once on marijuna and almost got sent back to jail, shit some junky sold me with my paycheck, but I dumped the rest of it in a toilet and gave it the eternal flush. I was really close to death for awhile with my drinking whiskey, and I am not going to lie- maybe some heroin with it. Ok, there was heroin with it. I stopped and am cutting back now.
I have a friend in prison, I correspond with him through letters and send him books in the mail. Prison is hell, it's like being locked up in a giant concrete tomb with the worst scum society could possibly manufacture for any given number of years, and having your contact with people completely severed. Not to mention all the crime going on in there, but shit...
I really liked your photo, Colleen, like an image of pain or addiction or both. Thanks for talking to me.

[Coleen Shin]

Well, one thing about being locked up in your own insanity is, the key is floating around in there with you, when you're ready.

Check under the Cheshire cat, that grinning bastard likes to hide the keys.

I'm glad you're trying to get better, it's hard, but worth it, sobriety is occasionally overrated
bit it do beat the hell out of dead. good luck with it. C

[Kurt K]

It's an attempt. It doesn't mean I can do it. My name on AIM is artbellsback if you would like to chat sometime.

Kurt

[n.r.m.]

what is AIM? kurt? artbellsback is a great name tho. coast to coast is a great show for insomniacs. i try and tune in nightly or tape it.
supposedly george norey and others were getting physically sick last time they had benjamin creme on. i listened to him and he just sounded like a regular old british dude to me.

[Kurt K]

AIM is america online instant messenger. download it at aol.com. I also have jonathan pentons screen name on there if you want it. we could chat on there, it would be better than phone conversations. I dont have long distance. I listen to coast to coast every night, i work nights.
Kurt