Writing
a diary every day is very diffic. All that water running through my fingers and
gurgling down the pisser. Why do I do it? Because the truth is a kidney stone
and I want to rip it out. How many truths? How many selves? How many masks? How
many justifications and rationalizations and secrets, denials, evasions and
lies? I was doing it for one other human being because I can't do it for God
and I believed Thomas Merton when he said i shouldn't do it for myself or it
would make me sick. Well, so what? So fucking what Thomas Merton you boring
little cunt. Who cares about you? I'm gonna psychodrama myself into blurting up
the bloody gall I carry like a sack of bullets and shit them out like I'm
Gatling gun firing Roman candles.
Memory Self:
Rachel would have understood your
impotent vituperation.
Psychodrama Self:
Mustn't withhold, mustn't
withhold.
Transvestite Self:
You keep me hidden nowadays, are you ashamed of me?
You keep me hidden nowadays, are you ashamed of me?
Memory Self:
I forgot you. I forgot your
lipstick and your stockings and your earrings and your blouses. You were so
stupid to fall in love with Rachel, I hope you're embarrassed.
Contrite Self parody self:
It would have been odd. The
tattooed lady heroin addict and the transvestite poet from ipanima. There's an
incongruence of animas in that outline of a sketch.
Voice of reason:
You're ashamed of your madness?
Your madness saved you from insanity!
Still small voice:
Now is the time to be honest. Go!
Self-self-self:
I love dark cherry lipstick and
bright green hair. Red as a flesh wound nail varnish and a black leather mini
skirt. Golden earrings, radar love.
Still small voice:
There are thousands of
intercosmic cornucopic
outcomes no matter how you fall, spin, toss, shrink, prevail, diminish,
redress, fuck-up. A consequence is just a fact, the law is incontrovertible.
What goes up keeps on dying until it becomes the moon.
My father in heaven:
How fucking stupid is that.
The cherry blossom in my soul:
I miss you daddy:
My father in heaven:
I love you son.
Psychodrama self:
Throw yourself in a Polish
theatre, drive to the Lightning field; there are storks and cranes and a horse
and cart and a million candles glow worm the grains of a thousand souls in
mighty limbo. There by the river is the shadow of your love, there beyond the
clouds unrequited at the horizon, the meeting point is an illusion which exists
in measurable determinable fact but not in reality.
Still small voice:
I've become you daddy, I've taken
on your scars.
My father in heaven:
My scars have disappeared.
Psychodrama self:
Forgive me daddy, I don't know who
I am.
Self-self-self: Thomas Merton:
The unbearable cessation of
feelings, the victory of desensitization, the calamitous Prevalence of hope,
the faint ignominious wish for resolution and denouement, the end of longing
and struggle. I see this in the cold breath of deportment exhaled by the worship
of a beautiful body, in the physical clasp of dawn.
Thomas Merton:
Rachel would have understood your impotent vituperation.
Memory Self:
Who's Rachel?
Singing:
“When
I fall in love, it will be with mother.”
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