All windows barred and shut and closed and covered. Silent swansongs from afar seek his ears and drool upon his knees and folded hands, folded now as if to pray, yet releasing only the golden voice of drowning whispers that might, on second glance, have been a scream of abstract epiphanies or rejected freak-ideas. Chewed, shot, regurgitated and shell-shocked, he lies there beneath ominous clouds of benzodiazepine-blue above, pining for release.
Masques line the walls of his single-celled organism living room cell, eyes that gaze and see nothing but blue-streaked shades of blues and the malevolence of benevolent pill-tyranny from shutter-bug masques and cliques that never once revealed their own face or true shape, yet claimed allegiance to the holy lost tradition of past healers mystical path.
Modern-day shaman rites in therapist couches and classrooms overrun by borderline infantile infanticide; Xanax double-takes that see young boys and men Xeroxed and ritualistically Ritalinized into completely oblivious oblivion. Or stroked and stoked into opinionated opiate-ponderings where and when all else fails on the long and winding road towards a cure for their peculiar predicament prescribed and defined as such from long-fingered hang-tooth nailbiters chewing on their last whistleblowing efficacy delicately, mulling the plight of their patients over in their heads above industrial-sized governmental coups in cocktail-party conversations with the best and brightest purveyors of rare drugs and synthesized herbal refreshments.
Or else euthanised euphorically and lovingly with Lithium and her alarmingly alluring grace; assorted whites and yellows and heavy metals; aluminium coils wrapped neatly around his neck and twisted tenaciously on the back of his tongue, spreading the woefully woke and aware inflammation further through his central nervous system, assaulting his brainstem and his neural interface, waking now and seeking madness, rampage, full frontal fevered frenzy.
…but succumbing to alluring traits in couch-lock cock-blocked bliss-and-blues as the medics and the healers both state with defined certainty that tribal states and views and love are not for him or his. For in his future lie naught but a blissfully unaware lifestyle-choice of hermits in the hermits cage and cave, built by the hands and hungry pens and mouths of vicious freelance isolationists and sanity separatists with concerted Ritalin or Concerta-grips around his morning bathroom routine, tangled in the lonely web of spiked-drink-greens upon his walls and consciousness that dread and die and dared defy the soothing chill and body-buzz of Venlafaxine-induced hyper-aware hyperactivity.
That lack of sleep from spiked brain-processing brought up from the depths of Effexor and her spectral shape mimicking amphetamines that kick-started body rush and muscle spasms, lockjaw-pains and clenched teeth and facial muscles… that then fed into an acute and immediate psychosis of delightful rarity and delicacy exploding from the shattered force of the tranquillized child lost deep within the mad-mind-maze of this spectral spectre spectator spectacle flooding the body with unknown chemicals and neurotoxins which were then to be quelled and conquered by the psychotics dream of anti-psychotics; graceful Zyprexa and her ruby lips injected into the tongue or corners of the eyes to kill the roaring madness and woefully misplaced energy whipped to a torrential monsoon by Venlafaxine. Oh boy.
Better soothe them nerves, old boy, to sleep and then to slumber some; take this casket or this suitcase or this ancient hearse filled to the point of structural collapse with alluring chemical remedies for your peculiar plight and predicament; uppers or downers of our choice by our hand and lingering pen-pal prescription delivered straight to your mailbox; instant Nirvana, instant enlightenment, instant radiant bliss, chronic constipation and a lingering impotence manifesting in the shape of a limp-noodled pinhead-dick.
And have we told you of our healers way, our ancient traditions brought to the front-and-centre of our world and dreary days; culture born from our holy ghost and divine presence; pop-psycho-babble amazingly popular in these streets named now after pharmaceutical companies dealing in bliss-by-the-bottle-and-the-handful salvations; four bucks a pop and we will promise transcendent pit-stone euphoria in blissful remedial Remeron sleep-and-slumber. We can promise Benzo-Buddha beauty and benevolence; numb and unfeeling, uncaring, a stoics dream and vital lifeline handcrafted by mechanical interventions in the deadlined supply-line and brought to life by starstruck seashore sellers of sensual sanity.
Or else we do have Prozac and Xanax, Cipralex or kiss-my-arse and various other tonics and bitters and swamp-snake snake-oils for your immediate release onto the loving bosom of God, in order to bring you to your knees praising God and his divine eternity in permanently persisting paradise; entire civilizations drugged into compliance and forgotten, lost within the murky swamps without a guiding light, with no need for guiding lights when there are no place to which one should wish to be guided.
Just flow and just feel nothing in this chemical bliss and castration of your muddled murky masculine mind blinded by insufferable individual ideology.
Soothed to the point of imaginary tentacle extraction and playtime alien brainwave interference by our galaxy of pop-goes-the-weasel pills that promise all and deliver nothing; all at once. And we can deliver salvation and we can deliver bliss and we can deliver you to the gates of paradise by scribbled lines from pens and needles in your feet and in your stomach and your heart and spine and soul and all.
For immediate release, in this day and in this age is prescribed from immediate need, from lack of patience, for lack of accumulated strength and wisdom to stand still in the coming storm, to call the storm to play ones own part and then become integrated into one self – conquered and defied, leashed and curtailed within and subdued by ones own strength of will.
The mouthy masques of psycho-babble babblelogues do babble on, solving issues of severe substance with substance-abuse court-ordered and mandated by vast and vague wishes of state-sanctioned uniformity – prescribed psychiatric prophylactic psycho-pills to conquer all and mend the beast – or, failing that, at the very least hiding said beast behind the merchant masques that stutter and then stammer so, to turn the beast within a docile, slumbering mess. Yet still being there within the brain and the fluctuating chemistry therein, it will once in a while pop up and come out to play, prompting us to crawl back into psycho-thematic couches and chairs to be prescribed some more and then some more, time and time again.
Or else be met with disbelief and stark defiance should we propose a differing solution to the drug-induced lazy euphoria of couch-lock-bliss and energies curtailed or wired or both at the same time, drowning in chemicals that tell the nervous system to do diametrically opposed things simultaneously; to be wired and to be subdued. To be fully aware and energetic, yet to be unaware and unconscious.
In this haze and marvelled madness lies he still; subdued and pill-popped, pondering his peculiar prescription predicament by the hand of God and the Government, merging, melding and meddling, becoming one and the same, indistinguishable and wonky and clad all in white flowing gowns.
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– Moiret Allegiere, 17.08.2019
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