Category Archives: fiction

No Life During Wartime

Back to bite, back to bite, don’t breath, thump thump.
Lights, gone. Food, gone. Drugs, gone, Hope.

Desperate sex and wobbly legs.
Get me drunk, look after me, stop the thinking, stop the world.

Back to bite, back to bite, bite me harder, fuck me harder
Than this silence, than this screaming, are they screaming, is it me?

The terror is like popping candy abusing my skull,
Like angry clots of blood trying to burst out of fingernails

Pulsing, screeching, moaning, and then silence.
The constant ringing and now your face has gone all blurry.

The thought of all the itches we will never get to scratch.
It’s all rotting, it’s all gone and you just keep being so fucking kind.

The bile in my stomach, my hands in your pants, is there even a point?
Splashing about in mud, looking for familiar faces, for a trace of something human.

Slaves demanding justice, then wanting the crown.
Grey days, skipped days, were you slowly drift away.

I don’t want to be pretty, I don’t want to write pretty
To hide behind niceties and disgusting adoration.

In the darkness I’ve stopped tripping, I walk steady now.
I’m not longer funny but I’m lonely, as you roll me the millionth cigarette,

As I gulp the millionth gulp of bitterness, my bitterness.
We lost a long while ago and we’ve wasted all our time.

Toxic waste and suspicion, is that mask because of me?
They’ve turned us against each other and there’s no going back.

There’s no life during wartime, only slow self-destruction.
Before the bombs, before the lights went out,

Before the mould and the stench and the disease and the hunger,
The mind numbing stupidness had already knocked us out.


 

Featured image: Jobkill by Pushwagner, Hariton (1987) can be found in the Norwegian National Museum, or online at: http://www.pushwagner.no/galleri/kunst/JOBKILL

Apocalypse

Always in the car of doom. And it’s doom for all this time, out of any of our control. We’re driving down the road and it’s calm, still vaguely sunny, there’s breeze, the sea is somewhere on the left and it’s almost dusk. A building up front towers over all, the Tikal perhaps, or maybe the Taj Mahal. It wasn’t there before and its feels ominous. I know something is happening a second before the rest. Yet we’re all in this together. Objects start tumbling from the sky before us: tables, cars, machines, electronics, trees, body parts, shoes, flowers and chickens. We see it but it’s too late to stop and we’re under the pouring rain of humanity. And now we all know this is the end, it is the end of it all. Tossed into the terminal, an itch of disappointment tugs at me. I thought this would feel different. There’s no sudden realisation, no purpose, no regret. My life doesn’t flash before my eyes. I just quietly find myself dismantling… everything splinters, matter is no more, and I vaguely think this is what it might be like if a planet struck earth, if we were imploding on ourselves. I’m disassembled painlessly and bloodlessly into blackness. And as our history is scratched out by the universe’s absentmindedness, I become extra dimensional, pulsating sparkles in the nothingness. Inexplicable and immaterial, maybe this is what pure consciousness feels like.

Featured Image by Danish artist Anja Hemmingsen. Find her on: http://anjahemmingsen.com

New Book Review Page and American Psycho

So, seen as I am documenting my yearly adventure with mental health and would like to share as much useful information as possible (to the poor deluded folk who think following my blog is an awesome idea) I have decided to put a new section on which to document reading, film, music and art reviews. Obviously all linked to mental health and/or creativity (or how modern society is destroying us).

I’m going to start with fictional reading. I’ve uploaded a couple of book reviews you can check out and will be adding more of my past readings in the near future, plus all the (very very many) books I have set myself the task to read in this year.

To start off, here’s of a review of a cute little light-hearted novel about a yuppie serial killer. Check the others out on my Mental Health Reads page!


American Psycho – Bret Easton Ellis

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Link with mental health: sociopathy.

American Psycho is a entertaining yet terrifying satire on the apathy of modern society, depicting the dysfunctions hidden behind the superficiality of the American yuppie world. It is recounted through the eyes of Patrick Bateman, a mass-murdering Wall Street broker. He is a typical, upper-class boy-next-door, who’s flow of consciousness (extremely accelerated due to the use of steroids and other drugs) manifests a refined, and almost obsessive taste for good clothes, good food, good music, good clubs, good prostitutes and preserving a good physical image. Not too strange huh? He also has a rather tasteful dislike for women and the homeless which he sees as society leeches who are not prepared to work for a living. Still, not that far fetched.

The really freaky thing is that good old Pat’s nightlife is tainted by an unrelenting blood lust, triggered on by repressed sentiments of disgust and hatred.

Why it’s good: Ellis’s narrative style brilliantly depicts the banality of violence in our modern culture, and how easy it is to detach oneself from emotivity. The superficiality with which everyone in Bateman’s life, including his lawyer, repeatedly ignore his crime confessions, is rather disturbing.

Patrick’s stream of consciousness very casually flutters between describing entrees of expensive meals and brand names of his colleagues attires, to the logistics of eviscerating homeless people and their dogs, nailing his ex girlfriend to the floor of his apartment and walking around the house with the severed head of a prostitute on his dick. At a certain point Bateman’s character is so alienated from himself that the narrative even switches to third person.

The gruesomeness of the acts, coupled with the casual tone in which they are recounted, render it almost humorous and indeed, extremely disturbing.