Disassociative

Sunday. October 20th. 

Since the start of October they’ve had me squirreled away here. A couple weeks pass and I tell them, There’s fuck all else to do. They say, keep a diary. I ask them, do I look like Anne Frank? Then they force feed me some of these little pills they stuff down your gullet. These ass-wipes are in here with me, and they know it. So out come the little blue and pink and yellow pills. We’re one big happy family, after all. 

The joint’s called Granola Heights. Western end of Ohio, near the border Ohio shares with Indiana. ‘Dangerous’ is what they tell me. To my face. Mentally unfit for trial, though. Small wins, I guess. They tell me I was too ‘dangerous’ to be sent the way of Colony Hatch, so here I am instead. In fucken O-hi-o. 

Monday. October 21st. 

What I’m told is, there’s four joints left that still have the lights running. There’s the four walls around me. There’s Colony Hatch, tucked away in the hills there. In Appalachia. And two other joints up there in Cascadia. The Pacific Northwest, I mean. One for the criminally insane, the other for those regular crazies that you just wanna pummel. As for any other looney bins, silent and empty. Gutted since Saint Ronnie took office. Thank fuck. One of these joints is bad enough. 

Tuesday. October 22nd.     

Last night, some scrawny fucker who kept banging around all night finally got his face pummeled before dawn. Damn near caved in his whole head for good measure. Sternly wagging their fingers and running their mouths, they’ll catch who did it, sure as shit as they had been when hunting the Zodiac. 

Meanwhile, scrawny fucker’s in intensive care. They say Death rides a white horse, except in Arabia. There he rides a camel. What I mean is, that white horse better fucken get here before that fucker comes to. 

Wednesday. October 23rd. 

Wish I could tell you I did something cool today, but all that happened was I found my way to the roof above the fifth floor and made my way over to the ledge. I took out my pecker and took a wicked piss, watching as my stream splashed the pavement far below, wishing there was someone standing on the spot where the concrete darkened. Kierkegaard said the only question that matters is whether to jump or not to jump. 

They have a security broad on staff, a big, beefy blonde. You might think this is no place for chicks, but I’ve seen this broad twist, dislocate the arms of guys who thought she’d be easy to do with what you do with broads. This broad, I seen her cupping dudes and crushing their balls. That isn’t a figure of speech. Crushing. This broad, on the way down from the roof, she grabs me and shoves me into a broom closet. Tells me to take her from behind. Months of pent-up semen now gum up her guts.    

Thursday. October 24th. 

Samael, Azrael, or big daddy Grim himself; it ain’t death, but it’s close enough! Brain damage, couldn’t be helped. Scrawny fucker’s pure vegetable now. Or a deep, restful coma. One or the other. How I celebrate is, I go to one of the phone banks they got here and dial up a local rock station and put in a song request. Then I dial the knob on the radio to hear Manson belt out ‘Coma White’. 

Friday. October 25th. 

Another night. From the phone bank, I put in another request to that rock station. So there I am, dial set, not full blast, I’m not an asshole, only halfway to full blast. Marylin Manson again. ‘Disassociative,’ frankly, should be anthem for each nuthouse that wasn’t voluntary.  

Saturday. October 26th. 

Amerikan water. Sure as shit, there’s something in it. 

Charles Manson was prophet. Charles Whitman, Charles Starkweather, those guys were omens caked with blood. 

If you ask me, Amerikans is just Arabs with a melanin deficiency. 

Sunday. October 27th. 

Tiles caked with blood, but no one’s around. 

Brother to jackals, companion to owls. What with my skin black upon me and my bones burned with heat… 

What I mean is, I can’t sleep. 

Monday. October 28th. 

That blonde broad with all the muscle packed on? Before she gets off her shift, she stages a reason and hauls me into the broom closet. She mentions in passing how she’s fixed, that I can raw dog. She better be. Doubt it, though. I empty my sack anyway. 

Sleep should come, but the night is long. 

Here, screech-owls and night-monsters will make a place for themselves and come to rest.  

Tuesday. October 29th. 

Eat of my blood, drink of my flesh. That’s what he said. That guy on all those wood carvings. He gets affixed to wood until he croaks, then this same guy, how the Vox usurp the Pantheon and he takes the place of Jupiter. I eat, I drink. Do they give me the cross? Do they give me old sparky? 

You can’t be rational when dealing with people. 

Wednesday. October 30th. 

Purge Night. The rest of those stuffy, ‘well-behaved’ Babbitts, hypocrites and knob-slobbers get to let it all hang out while we’re here. Lucky me, the Purge does extend to the nuthouse. Caught this one bald-headed Wide-O this morning. When he was on the crapper I came and locked him in a choke hold. Apply yourself the right way, and his spinal cord gives way. Snaps clean in two. The first one’s neat and clean and on the slab. There’s these two other shit-stains, but they bucked; managed to choke the pair into minor brain damage. So it goes. 

The orderlies tell me that before the Purge went national, it had a trial-run around the mid-70’s. In prisons, natch. It’s said it was the Attica riots what gave those shit-sniffers the great notion to begin with. 

Thursday. October 31st. 

This is going to be a long Halloween. Already there’s small fires everywhere. Granola Heights is on fire. That is, trash fires on each floor, or almost each floor. Half the building’s dressed in T.P. Busted up toilet bowls, chipped porcelain rims. Floors, slippery when wet. Halloween makes people rowdy as hell. What with Purge Night being set the night before, you’d be pressed to think, gee, people would’ve gotten it all out. But whatever. Sometimes people need that extra hit.   

What I’ve seen, third floor, guy up there set his bed on fire. Shame that, seeing the fire extinguishers come out. The whole joint’s spiraling. We play it as it lays, and if we play it right, we might brute-force our way out of this hole.   

On Halloween the old ghosts come, as the poet wrote. 

They come unseen and go unseen. 

Whatever.    

Friday. November 1st. 

New dawn fades, I guess.