In genocide prep – you remember less (since history is being broken) – but you also have less space – so it is you in the room with a giant and generally falsified memory – a time of privilege, lost, that now oppresses as a responsibility (to revenge, to void all that separates you from this dead falsity – your pay). You can’t get around it, can examine it for seams and flaws. Small and tight, you are a dead memory’s parasite.
From writing yesterday on a killer, touching on this sense of the radically cramped:
- i. Benzodiazepine Anticonvulsant
He will be a wild donkey of a man
One milligram of Ativan
Space is a mollusk, a lip or gristle, generating bone.
Skeleton in the graveyard – up and at ‘em at night – is
Pearl in reverse or at least the nautilus of a ghost, a shell around dark nothing, invisible spit.
The pill takes him, and grows disoriented.
- ii. Night Alone
Clown Romeo calls late night talk radio. Clown Romeo is dressed like an ordinary boy in a shiny black coat, fabric receptive to signal, hairs on your arm; gentle breath. He is a match in reverse. Colorless; the action of his head makes the dark colder.
11:40pm – 6:30am.
From about midnight to 6:30 in the morning he is alone and polite in a mental hospital. He can’t even tell his parents he needs money. How will he tell them he needs mental health? He will later spend his money on guns. He will later build his mentality inside a machine, a unique orthodoxy of ideas racing to extinguish themselves in all directions, ideas written on the teeth of paper-thin gears spinning off axles, a bizarrely rapid opiod clock with no hands.
Up to use the bathroom: the visions of Ismail. Down the hall in six-foot poster, a bird-broken worm, or an AM radio song.
“You hypocrites. You had everything.”