Behind every locked door is another door
and behind that door is the dream world,
with it's dream languages,
and so forth.
It is a world to which I have a special access.
It twists ardously in disorder,
and illuminates with a dark light,
it is the butthole of the spiritual world
and it shits out only pain.
There is a place even the ARTISTS
don't really go
or don't really wanna go.
It is beyond an abstract spacial contortion,
and it is beyond a faux-indeginous stylized shaman.
It is the man who has plumbed his innermost debths.
Fucking Insanity. Bare Madness,
no fancy special trappings
that make your Art or New Age Healing
I have seen the cobras of woe
twisting themselves about my thighs
in anxious Community College suburban bed.
My parents were the worst vampires.
I would shake until I really vomited out the madness,
these terrible contortions my dad said were like from The Exorcist.
I stumbled through this world a young man,
bright eyed, radical and terrified.
I have made it through with raw pharmecuticals and love
to some new language
There is a plain of roses
and flourishing bees,
fauna and no shudder of real demon death gripping my limbs.
I know this sounds improbable
But there is a terror in my dreams
A writhing nightmare
that is not (neccesarily) a horror story.
I could just only call it
My life as a Schizophrenic.