No matter the price

November 12, 2011

There was a lot of violence in the 80s. It was in the movies. It was in the street. There was a numbness. Like the assassinations had desensitized us. The character in this piece is broken. There are edges to him. That cut. He wants to be healed. No matter the price. It was rage.



Part 9

I have blackouts in which I remember things that never happened.

She placed her hands in a drawer. She tried to lock it with a key between her teeth. She sneezed and swallowed the key.

What’s wrong with me. All of this spare time has made me too creative. I keep devising all brands of possible worlds. In almost everyone she is standing over a casket. Give me one last chance, she cries. I life up the lid of the casket and respond, can’t you see its no longer my problem.

Order in society depends upon each individual’s desire to remain sane.

Drinking too much. Unemployment cheques have stopped. The last letter said YOU’VE SURRENDERED.

Consciousness is something I no longer wish to participate in. I’d rather be a spectator.

Made a lot of new friends down at the Yonge St. Tavern. Its like bleachers ambushing a clock. No one listens. Everyone wants to talk.

One evening she busted into tears. People with university degrees, she wept, aren’t supposed to act so cruel.

Our diet has begun to change. Lately there’s been less meat and more soup and casseroles. I’ve begun to grow fat. She wants me to get ugly. She showed me an empty bank book. Don’t you think I need protein as well, she screamed. I took her mouth and shoved it into my pants. There’s your meat. Chew!

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