No Catacombs for the forests of May

Dutifully insane, I trudge this desert and decide that, emotionally speaking, this is no weather for the sane. And We are all tying ourselves up in knots and for no other raison than we want what we want at the time. Other concerns don't bear thinking, Thought is too heavy a thing. Only this afternoon I blew up the only decent car I had left. No oil in the engine, and no car to my name now. Just a pair of rapidly deteriorating legs.

Nothing matching, nothing doing, my shoes are even in a state. Insolence as judge. No seeming hope and the end of the walk. I am a face without a man at the back of it. That feeling of immobility: Dali hadn't realized it, but what he accomplished was to capture me at my worst. That feeling of the life betrothed, without even being betrothed. I need to do something to escape the claws that hold me in place. And now the car was gone.

Life claws me into dream, a nest of interlocking claws, holding me back with the patterns of torture I devise for myself. I note the patterns and jot them down, one by one in the flesh, one stick-prod after nervous stick prod... They form my dreamscape. Coming back now. Into a dream of wakefulness.

One jab for loneliness
One stab of Isolaton
One prod for Depression
One for the angry man with the gun 
And the Desperation that follows...

AND YET I have no pregnant woman to look after, no urgent need to martyr myself, why am I caught in a hillbilly apocalypse? 

But the oil that oozes when crushed by pain is of a certain quality. I crush out the last wars within myself. Skirmishes now, two old men holding sticks, all of the young are dead. What would I be without them, those young who sacrificed themselves for the government?THE EMBERS I CLASP HAVE HOLINESS IN THEIR FIREY VEINS AND I WANT TO BE SEERED AWAY LIKE A FACE WITHOUT AN IDENTITY IN THE WORLD.

There is nothing buddhic or sagely about this moment, nothing particularly angry either. On the other side you would have expected as much. In limbo you could ask for as much. 
But no. It is the language of a lonely cave-dweller devising games 
Devising new and interesting ways of seeing his whorl of a world. 

"Peace and domestication fellas, peace and domestication. "A toothless cockney selling the news current. 

Pick a lump of ivy for the wife and pop it in the roast. 

Now he turns away from the crowd to address me.

"Stuffing of an Un-Christmassy sort has long been our lot, don't you think guv'ner?"

Yes, yes, and the giant in my basement would have  a word with you.. 

Her meaty loins have given up their endless pursuit.

Now she haunts me.

"Pull'em out - one bone at a time - They're always hard to find, those golden teeth, and soon as you dig em up there's another ten in waiting. Waiting to marry you! He spreads his toothless grin before the world and  especially before my vision. Roast giants. Giant soldiers marching on, dead and all bone. 

"I say crush the thing that crushes you," A little wafe with with the build of a dwarf and a chipmunk's baleful voice comes drawing the curtains which are the man's overcoat. 

Then as if bored, they turn away to address the crowd again. 

"Literary embolisims: A force to behold in daily turret. Forces that will blow your brain clear out of consciousness. 99 p. One for you madam?"

A woman carreens the corner in her infomercial-bought electric wheelchair, right on cue. 

Well don't just do something, Stand there! A row curlers seem to be dangling from her hair accomplishing nothing at all, on a mat of hair that has fallen off: A poor excuse for a wig I think. More like a carpet on which a rat takes a drag.

The waif races to his spot and waves her into the hotel. 

"Literary Embolisms and Botched  Weddings. Dinosaur Zoo turned graveyard. Come get yer daily Turret..." Come and Get yer daily turret. The voices fade. No more dreams for me. I must wake.

Irene Godley is Dead