Depression 102

 

img_0019-e1506803558785

 

All my thoughts
gathered
in a sandy bag already
full
of
unwanted memories.

I try to regain control of
myself.
Unsuccessfully.
My misery is my Lord.
A sick divinity
marching along
my
filthy emotions
on the road to
yesterday.

But Hear This
for all my dead wishes
and all the sliced roses
drowned under my bed
and all the screams
of my baby skin

Fuck Jimmy Choo
and his yellow
hat.

Inbedwithmyself

 

IMG_4016

 

You might think that I have a multiple personality disorder or something.
I don’t!
I’m not even delusional.
I am a lucid observer of me and anything else
But sometimes, I swear to God,
I can see myself detaching from my own image
reflected on that old stained mirror
(which by the way is too small and too low placed)
I have in my bathroom.
Strange ha?

Every morning
I see myself as that old, fat, tired guy
with broken glasses
who stares at me in silence
from that bloody mirror
(I wonder if the guy can see the same mirror from his side)
that I promised to me
(the main ME)
NOT to clean ever.
He looks at me with his small black eyes,
his lips sealed like a purple grave
and his overall face expression
trying to communicate with me.
Somehow.
But he never actually does.
“Hey mister!
Can you wash away that sick purple smile off your face please?!”
No answer.
Bastard.
This happens every time I look,
in the mornings,
for the first time in the mirror
(actually I really love those stains)
and after I do his game for like,
5 minutes and I put my head under
cold water
(not any kind of water)
suddenly,
I can connect with reality.
I am awake now.
Looking back in the mirror
(which hangs on the wall like a lost and never found abstract painting)
I realize that the silent me is gone
and the another one replaced him
There must be a hidden factory,
in the flesh of the mirror,
that produces all those versions of me.
But where?
He’s not watching me anymore,
he just sits on
a King-Louis-God-knows-which-one impressive chair
(maybe is the 14th, the chair smells like rococo, but I’m not sure)
and sings with a powerful bass voice
“The End” by The Doors.
“Hey mister, can you shut the fuck up, you’re waking me up!”
Now I’m really awake.
For the second and final time.
A generous, soft, good smelling white hand
is giving me my toothbrush and a refreshing voice
(a truly refreshing one, not like the fake ones from Colgate commercials)
says:
“Good morning sunshine, how are you today?”
The owner of the voice is obviously,
another version of me smiling behind the mirror
(from the dispersion pattern of those stains I would say it’s a Pollock, but I’m not sure
about that either).
“Sunshine my ass!
There are no meteorological miracles in Scotland so you better shut it.”

All the crazy me are in my bathroom.
I wonder where the sane ones are.
Maybe in the kitchen.
Starving.
Or eating.
Or smoking MY pipe.
Bastards!

 

Depression 101

 

IMG_4043

 

My depression is like a work of
ART
forged by my dirty, smelly, little
fingers
(actually my pinkie does the entire job, but I am not supposed to tell that to everyone)
on every, fucking, Saturday night.

It’s very annoying and unbelievable, it’s a SHE.
Remarkably beautiful. From one side.
From the other she looks like
an oversized metaphysical SLUT I like to penetrate
(every Sunday morning after my prayer)
with my big, pink, plastic
but very realistic imitation of
PENIS I carry between my eyes.

Oh man it’s so
HARD getting
a prescription for it and
every Monday morning I get my ass
kicked by a skinny, blonde, sexy optician for
unreasonable demands.