Skip to content

SICK WITH DEPRESSION 2 / ELISA 4

March 17, 2018

I close my eyes against it,

I rub my temples, my face, against it,

Every action, every gesture, a small victory,

I see no end, no real victories,

Survival mode suits me well,

To survive is to succeed,

Will I make it?

Push myself along,

What must be done?

I can forego a morning coffee,

There is no longer a love there,

At the café …. her plain appearance,

Her constant sickness,

To kiss her is to be stricken with plague,

The rats are wondrous plague carriers,

I don’t believe the science of old,

Nor today’s science. What came of Pluto?

 

Pyjamas, but my survival will require clothing,

To shower? To bathe? Unnecessary,

A plague carrier: I don’t care,

Why is the first track the same as the last?

Why do we repeat ourselves at beginnings and ends?

Shaved. Teeth are brushed. I can no longer move,

I see all in shades of grey,

Music, at a low volume,

Or perhaps my eardrums have been damaged,

Errors of language. Always possible,

When we’re not thinking, clearly or other,

Clouds in my head, clouds in the sky.

 

Make the call, or struggle on?

Make the call at ten o’clock, evening. Hang up,

I see little. My glasses are elsewhere,

Not far. Out of reach,

Live from day to day. Put out a record,

It’s all very exciting. Put out a book, or two,

Put out a record, or two. Under different names,

Calls, messages, from undesired sources,

Luncheon? No thanks. I’ll take the goods,

I don’t care for you. You performed a service,

To me, you are a whore,

I paid you more than a gutter whore,

The gutter whore disgusts. She shrieks with laughter,

I’d laugh too. It’s an easy life, on the street.

 

Luncheon. Will it be taken today? Unlikely,

At the end of this album, will another be spun?

Unlikely. The music is a distraction, today,

Perhaps always. The young have their wiles, and their tastes,

She? She’ll be a whore. Out of the question,

Possibly, probably, already. She’s blessed with wiles,

She spits and all: a typical gutter whore,

We’ll go around the corner, and sigh,

He? He requires aid to become erect,

Only at the sight of gutter whores,

Intrigue at the sight of gutter whores, always,

How do we define a gutter whore? She spits. Yes.

 

Grey. Grey abounds. How do they move about?

Like little black ants down below,

All in fur, but of course: like a gutter whore,

She. She begs, in fur – a contradiction,

Will I return to bed? Will I make the call?

To my favourite gutter whore: effectively free!

Three days is too long, without him,

He recommends his services, obviously,

Gutter whores offer but a brief respite,

With no recompense. Fancy a gutter whore?

Why yes. So say those without shame,

Conversations with gutter whores: always the same,

He offers drugs: I accept gladly,

The drugs are free! I’m glad!

I’m no longer addicted, except to drugs,

I bid adieu to gutter whores at some point,

After seeing my whore. He’s glad to have my money.

 

Anxiety. Four days without my whore,

I can go but one day without his drugs,

His drugs of wonder. I fly, like a crazy kite,

I was tired. I sat. I drank. No. You can’t drink,

I create the rules here. Obey, or there will be consequences,

Not really. Five cents in my pocket, after seeing my whore,

A birthday. Abandoned, for a film,

All those providing a service: whoredom,

I’d appreciate recent photographs, for I’m far,

You know that I’m far. A recognition:

I’ve been absent, but only briefly,

Sign your name, promptly.

 

She wept, openly. I openly mocked,

They provided comfort. I’ve had enough,

My whore relieves me, when necessary,

Misunderstanding the pay cycle, like that of the moon,

I’ll sleep. I’ll hope to awaken free of this strickening ….

I don’t even know. Don’t ask, dear whore,

It feels like nothing. I’m in an abscess,

But, this here, it relieves me,

And, there is no whore present,

Except on the street below, shrieking madly,

They are mad. Their cavities are full,

They stink. They are desirable to some.

 

I dress up for my whore. He does the same for me,

Almost a suit, the two. I face the ground, his feet,

Except when he speaks. Then, he has my attention,

Ah, what a whore. This, this prepares me for my day,

My day which will recommence in bed, asleep,

I put my home in order. But why, some may ask,

And quite reasonably. We think that order frees us,

We are never free. Another record, same artist,

Starting midway through. A certain song, songs,

We wish for lives of others, in vain,

Fruitlessly, we beg to the gutter whores,

We beg to the lowly beggars. Misunderstandings prevail,

A cure to depression: no whore necessary,

Perfectly she speaks, in her adopted language,

Arrogantly, she speaks. I’ve no desire to see her,

She’s cold. I don’t care for her every word,

Every second word. The first contains meaning,

Why begin in this other tongue, always?

 

To dress: arduous. I’d dress for love,

But love is far. I don’t long,

We laugh, madly, and cry,

Next week? See you then! Okay?

I follow directions: follow the line,

Here, you will be chained, and punished. Okay?

Yes.

 

No response necessary.

Advertisements

From → Uncategorized

Leave a Comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: