BY THOMAS WYLIE
Give me back my full-frontal, trippy, broken head. Broken pieces, but the puzzle becomes amusing after a time. They are jagged but so are the holes, and the smooth edges have no space to fit in. Only the jagged ones, that nick you when you force them. Rather jagged than round and slow and lazy. To know that they know fucking nothing, eventually, and they tell me that nothing is OK. No easy answers to fucking simple questions, only an eternity of more, less and more broken, until fixed is a mirage and broken is a misty, forgotten memory. Try this, taste this one, see if the flavour agrees with your still being here. Still here? I don’t know here. Why here? Here is where I’m leaving and here must be an ugly image in the rear-view mirror as I drive away, fast and twitchy around gravelly corners. I want away. Give me the ones that make me rise without the gargoyle on my shoulder, whispering impotent gargoyle stories of anxious fear and a foreboding future, today and onwards, forever. Not the ones that bust my balls and tarnish the shiny bits in my head. Not the ones with the paunch over my belt and the floppy, shrunken member and broken dirty fantasies.
I like the dirty fantasies. I like to enjoy them. I like to enjoy. Bipolar, a stupid name for a stubborn and sticky nothing. So ecstatic as to hurt, so broken as to crumble and degrade. So stuck in an unreal picture of me. The drugs are old, and they change, and I don’t know if they’re working. I’m still here, but that’s not enough. Where was I before? I’m still here. No I’m fucking not. Give me the happy ones. I don’t want addiction to numb, and boring, and never. Give me addiction to sharp, brittle, itchy and rough, and grinning and open. The happy ones, please. Give them to me, and I will thank you and you will have made me smile, laugh and mean it gratefully. My stomach will burn less. My guts will bleed less. I don’t want to know that momentum is warped and sucking back on its tail. I want to fly forward in my capsular now, heavy and violent and abrasive and wonderful. When I enter, I want more, not just warm and wet and tight and slippery. I don’t want my head in the way. I want to shout because I know that no-one cares, and bellow obscenities at that moment because there is no better time.
I want to feel the naked, bare-knuckled fighter as he revels in his jagged outline and barbed edges and he enters me, dry and painful like a humping cat’s scream. I don’t want smooth. Give me the pointy bits and prick my finger and rapid test my desirable threshold for agony. Because agony is razors and pain is living hard and substantial, temporary spiky sensation and remembering to forget to remember, regularly. No pretty, pretty Doctor. You have the good ones, dear Doctor. Give them to me. More fucking more. Not nothing fucking nothing. Let me bleed life. The good ones, please.
