This is What Normal Means to Me

I had a normal evening. All my friends came by, both of
them, we had a blunt and a chat and a Xanax nap and I woke up in a dreamworld
where all the girls I’ve ever talked to sat around in a circle shaped room
talking about the size of my cock with derision. I sat down with them with the
dick diagram before me on the floor, every wrinkle down to its exact natural
unpleasantness. It just wobbled on the floor, a sour apple looking eye ball
winking at me saying, “What you looking at, dickhead?” The dick’s head turned
into my father, crawled up the wall and exploded, all the female’s
disappearing. They turned into flower shaped stickers on the hollow wall. I
stuck my finger into one of the holes on the wall and felt a squiggly crawling
sort of warmth looked at my hand and it was covered in blood. The blood tasted
like metal soup and then like ketchup. The underlined word has a red line
meaning wrong. The blood began to ooze out of my ear like it did in school when
I read a sentence at a time, speed reading trick a Jew taught me late one
night. I blinked and he was gone, all the laughter and derision and the songs
were gone, and I was in my room, alone, typing to a computer, and the computer
said, “What do you want me to do? I’m just a machine. I can’t clean your room.”
Computer explodes covers me in tartar sauce, just like in school and thick and crusted
like clotted blood. Speaking of blood, had some in a dream like metal soup.
Confused days walk up the walls when I close my eyes and look at me with the
What’s it going to be then, Brandon? Look. The spoon can shake the cobs webs
loose, women in the dream turn and face me when the flame rises in the
reflection of the spoon and daddy says, “Mommy was a coke whore. Daddy smoked
his grass. Baby is a morphine junked tanked off his fucking ass.”

Amen.

And so it went.

Disillusioned days
went sideways, time non linear never moved. TV’s burn out like lightbulbs in
the alleys with crawling men with sparks like robots shooting from their ears.
They said I was crazy. I was crazy once. I remember pulling over to the side of
the road to take a nap and couldn’t, got out on a backroad lit a cigarette took
a shit and wiped with a Burger King napkin. Royal on the ass and left it in the
grass and left, back to the house, back to the eyeball, under the microscope
again, sideways on the wall looking at the ground and feeling down, pop a
couple pills and the frown turns upside down and fake and the laughter in the
head rolls out hollow like a robot orgasm. Deedle deedle geep that boy is
fucking crazy. Professional, you know, daddy earned his pension, his crazy
check the broken robot parts that slide in the mouth like backward Pez. I’m a
maniac. What do maniacs do? They talk to themselves out loud and wait for
questions. I said What’s up? To the air, the air looked at me and said, “Air
doesn’t fucking talk, stranger.” Stranger? I’ve had you in my mouth for years.
In your mouth? The pervert air. “In your ass like prostate.” Disgusting.

Ever seen an
asshole with eyeballs vomit? Feel the air, stranger. I think you dropped something.

$300 a month you
can make it work, cigarettes, Dr. Pepper, and legal medications. The medication
for the mind, don’t you know. If you watched a man crawl down a wall and stick
a cellphone in your mouth, blow it up and laugh and pop out like a bubble,
would you tell your shrink? If you did they’d say, “Are you on drugs?” and if
you’re not? You will be. People don’t crawl on walls or undulate like water
bubbles unless the brain is shaken and stirred, James Bond couldn’t handle
that. Sometimes the sky looks up at me and I feel upside down on the world. The
ground is the sky where the feet are and my hands dangle off the side and I never
fall, but hanging on the ceiling looking at the roaches at your feet is enough
to be a bit balmy, ain’t it? Ain’t it wonderful when hallucinations are free
and LSD is business as usual? I’ve never seen a world without disturbances, not
since nine, big whack on the head in school made the normal organism
functioning process fragment into the 3 minds, the mediator, the antagonist,
and the guy I cheer for who I want to be, the advertising agent for my services
as a friend, entertainer, writer, whatever, that’s the guy who comes out in
public, and the guy in private sits around and talks to magic eight balls, eats
the paper in the fortune cookies and take the dough as advice. Vodka is what I bleed.
So when I want to get drunk I cut my wrist and drain it, drink it, and then
shit flames. Sometimes I walk up the wall, outside of my body you know, my
being can be detached from the body. When I turn the body off, I leave a
screensaver that can do a few commands, and my being, the see-through me slides
out the ear and wanders through the clouds, to the Grand Canyon, the pyramids
of Egypt, come back to the body after a thousand years and the clock shows five
minutes missing. I am sober. If I was intoxicated, I’d make sense of the
rattling led, the me is like the led in spraypaint bottles. We can do a simple test to determine insanity.
Does this writing make sense? If so, you’re insane. If not, you’ll go insane
from trying to make it. Sometimes I like to free write, word relate without
trying to pass any information other than abstract forms, each word attaches to
an idea, a construct that implies: a door, a means of escape, way into another
room. The concept of the door is a means to leave, so no doors floors aisles
crowded broken potatoes sag rugs ragged frayed laced up boots shoot survive win
a prize. What the fuck does that mean? No escape, just passageways, crowded
aisles, broken organisms lay ragged frayed, laced up boots, go to work and
shoot, shoot? Pistol or a needle. Which is safer? The pistol. The needle is
illegal. I might get high with a needle, now with a pistol I can kill other
people and then me. Safety first, kids. Don’t do drugs. Unless you’re crazy as
shit and then it’s okay, they’ll even pay you a small stipend since you can’t
work, can’t talk, and babble to a white wall that reflects the nonsense
back. Somebody told me to write a
thousand words as fast as possible and that is what this is. I hope it makes no
sense. Sense is boring. Insanity is where the fun is at. Fuck you Brandon, seriously, is this supposed to be funny? Is insanity for its own sake banter now, no longer trying are we? Come on monkey, dance! Feed it and it will. American Junkie was last season, sobriety is crazier. No Xanax now, just anxiety, just tedious observation deduction deliberation novels poems and all that shit I’m expected to do, the poetic flights of faggy fancy, no shoes, no showers, just dirty glasses and a tall glass of Vodka wanting to arm wrestle Dostoevsky and see if I’ve got a bigger dick than Shakespeare. I bet I do. The worms ate Shakespeare’s cock a long time ago and Hamlet couldn’t do shit but rattle off a soliloquy and fantasize about murder. An American Hero is Terry Schiavo, a nice little Christian with her problems over, an empty fortune cookie with no idea what it is. Ha-ha! Get it? Neither do I.

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