Spikes of love and spikes of hatred. Surges of love, surges of hatred.
Swinging from lows to highs. Mad cycling. Chaotic ups and downs. We’re barely in control. Are we in control?
The desire to laugh. Wild laughter. Screams of laughter. Is it laughter anymore? Can you laugh in horror? Can you laugh in despair?
Pushing into our heads: terrible thoughts. Nightmares in daytime. Premonitions. It’s like we’ve all become prophets.
Our moods. Our mood swings. These are the moods for the end of time. We’re unreliable. We can barely concentrate. Our mind’s not on our teaching.
Our minds … what are our minds on? What do we think about?
A screaming inside us. A horror unleashed. Flaming.
Fire, licking upwards. Through us. To what? To reach what?
Fire, answering fire. Fire, calling out for fire in the sky …
A derangement outside us. Invading us. A derangement that comes from … where? From outside.
An emergency of everything. Of all things.
Mythological. Prehistoric. There’s no name for these forces.
Who are we entertaining? Who’s laughing at us? Someone. Who made us like this? Who made us think these things? Who put these thoughts in our heads? Who deranged us? Who mutilated us? Who abused us?
Who wanted us this way? Who bred us? Whose experiment are we? Whose idea of a joke?
Our grotesquerie. Our living farce. We’re amusing someone, surely. This has to be for something – someone. It can’t have just happened spontaneously. This isn’t by chance.
Self-laughter. Some laughing horror at ourselves, deep inside us. At how far we could go. At how far we’ve been allowed to go.
Who permitted this? This … carry on. This … and-more-of-this. This … ceaselessness. This ruination. This despoiling. This pollution.
What we’ve done. What we are doing. How can the sun bear to shine upon us? How can the sky bear to roll on above our heads?
If God was real, if God sees all, if God saw us, then how could he stop from killing himself?
Born mangled in the head. Born warped in the head. Born twisted in the head.
Born, hardly born. Born shat out. Born mutilated.
Were we always like this? From the start? What went wrong? Was it genetic? Environmental? Who can we blame? Some fault in our genes. Some sickness of thought …
Luxuriating in shame. Wallowing in sin.
We’re glorying in it, that’s the thing. We enjoy it. Our abasement. Our excuses-for-lives. We’re unashamed, unabashed …
It’s grotedquerie in us that laughs. Which is part of our grotesquerie. Even the most grotesque part.
Our hyena-laughing. Our Satanic laughter. Our rictus grins
Tearing strips off one another. At war with one another. And why? To be at war with ourselves. Each the other’s proxy. We’re tormenting each other to torment ourselves.
Work in Progress 