INSOMNIA

I did go to bed early.  Whatever that means.  The night was dark, like a sewer, and turds careened through the streets without purpose.  Cinema was everywhere.  And all its hideous accoutrements.  I wanted to hack like a heavy smoker and run my hands down the pants of something furry with a bottle of bourbon up my ass.  The streets.  Turdcicles. Turdcycles.  Made me think of double gyres of scats as a kind of schema of history or something.  STOP trains winding down to trainy beddy bye.  Oh god.  Love again.  Or, rather, thoughts of love.  Or, rather rather, something resembling a neon sign i saw in Bangkok once intimating practices sometimes associated with love.  (Though i’ve never been to Bangkok.  Or Spain.  [Kissed Spain’s ass once, as it stuck it into France when i was perusing through Whatever when i was Ambassador to Whatever.  That’s true.]  That’s true.)  Parenthetical desires.  Epistemological eccentrics.  Make the toilets go round.  Speaking of.  Just saying.  Whatnot.  What if toilets were like carousels—pretty coloured piggies and horsies twirling in circles, oop and down like dandelions, all for a few buckaroonis ... imagine plunking down your ass on that!  They’ve almost finished it.  The bridge.  The one down to the left and over there.  But they’ve been almost finishing it forever.  Like civilization but without the Fruit Loops.  We have enough humans doing research into reason (or what’s called reason by those doing the research into what they call reason).  That’s what the nightmare’s for.  (Though nightttime should have three teas, like The Hatter & The Hare when Halice joined them with her chalice.)  And we have enough people going mad in the traditional way, the mad way, as compensation for reason.  I propose calm detached soothing comprehensive vigorous investigative documented cited methodical research into madness—which is surely nothing other than reason in a mirror, and what are mirrors for!??!—using not reason’s methods but madness’s (madness has its methods but they’re on different books):  ([{after reducing my political commitments in the external world i find i’ve been becoming more priapic at the keyboard ... good sign, wouldn’t you say?}]) the (a!) problem with psychology is it uses reason’s methods (those fearful forms) to research madness then wonders (though it rarely wonders!) why the stats are getting worse ... and they call them insane!  (I don’t usually like emoticons, i find them demeaning.)  Isn’t that what art is?  To hang reason and psychology upside down and spank the shit out of them?  To take the cosmic dildo god and make the brain’s holes moan.  Isn’t madness just the body and though we say we love the body we just want to fuck it?  René in drag.  Whatever and whatnot.  Evernot and whatwhat.  Cinema and cinnabons and sin’a’ma.  But now i’ve been at this long enough that the STOP trains are going again, even the gloaming has gone, the stupid sun is crawling up the hypodermic needle like a giant rabid testicle and everything is normal once again.

So here it is.  Seven in the morning.  Wide awake like lemons.  The soupy soup of words having souped.  Eternal night having done a dump on its techno singing swirly throne.