Listen to Suggested Audio:
Akira Miyake “Kingdom Hearts”
Kooky job offers from the local abattoir, if-only-you-could-drive undertaker perfection. Fuck Victoria’s Secret underwear, Hell yes Co-operative undertaker! Royal Mail became a source of income, enough to splurge on VHS and Decca originals. Stood at the bus stop outside Whiplash Trash ready to venture deep into Vintageland. All by myself. Never accompanied by an adult. Or was I the adult?
It feels strange to see a woman’s exterior in the scratched mirror of a post-war wardrobe but my mind registers something else. Not a girl or boy. Man or woman. I saw an Alice who’d eaten it AND drunk it at the same time. Maybe snatched the caterpillar’s hookah too. Afflicted by myself. Is yourself a bad thing? Good question.
Years dragged by. Long months with their knuckles scraping along the asphalt. Pop went the dickhead weasel in 1996 when I had a life-changing neurological moment and ever since then, funny shit gets funnier. To me it did. With the ability to smirk at the terrible. Career dead and buried. Health more or less cremated. Yet still the Cheshire Cat grins.
But dazed.. beautiful… and bruised. Days go by in a haze of fuck-knows-what and your mind is fuck-knows-where. Plaques on the brain cause twitching and bitching, seizures seize you in an electric shock grip – coincidentally discovered electronica music back in ‘96. The choice of music for the buzzing epileptic.
Bruises from fibromyalgia appear on the torso like pigeon shit on a car beneath a bridge. Cause known yet mostly ignored. Left to form and pressed in painful satisfaction. Like biting mouth ulcers, delightful agony! When did it start and where will it end? End when the coffin lid is clumsily shut by a pissed off undertaker on overtime no doubt. Unless I’m a cursed living dead with brain tissue oozing out of my nostrils like slugs slithering on their mucoid secretion. Secretion Street.
Conventional. Average. Normal. Usual. Unremarkable. “Girl Interrupted” Borderline ValiumFreak from the once fierce MacGregor Clan. I observed what the skies were like and how animals died. I was “funny” but FUNNY, but only I thought I was. Maybe that Lockerbie joke was plane bad…
Reclined with left leg in a splint and a glint in my eye, I ponder these disjointed memories and no longer weep. People come and pricks go. It’s okay. You were a son-of-a-bitch anyway. My body is battered, nerves shattered but never before has “IT’S ALIVE!” sounded so good when yelled from the shower of a mobility standard home. I’m alive and coping because of the purest love and light from my family and friends. My Kingdom Hearts.
© Copyright: Sharon Lawson™