Roesing Ape

Interlude VII: What Turk Murphy Wrote Inside Himself

“I want to be drunk. I want to be drunk until I don’t realize I’m dead. I want to stop farting, stop shitting, stop crap from coming out of my ass in general. I want to stop being hungry. I want to stop the daily fucking maintenance of being alive. Cleaning, sleeping, shitting, and jerking off. For Christ’s fucking sake give me a break. A Coma would be nice. If not that then good drugs will have to do.

I am a sad tragedy if only I could sympathize with myself. How’s it going to look if I stop looking at myself? I will return to that which I am from made. If I am not of that already as if. Just reconfigured/lies lying in even well pretty much anywhere. How do I be reconfigured? This. How hard it is to distract oneself from nothing, that gaping hole. I am a giant ornate façade of marble and dung with bright neon lights flashing NOTHING INSIDE and in small print BUT BOTTOMLESS DEPTHS AND SHARP BRITTLE THINGS THAT BREAK OFF IN YOUR SKIN EVEN IF YOU JUST BRUSH UP AGAINST THEM AND THEN YOU CAN SEE THEM THERE, ALIEN LITTLE SPECKS OF PAIN WITH RED-RED RINGS ABOUT THEM AND YOU CAN DIG AND DIG AND DIG BUT IT JUST PUSHES THEM DEEPER IN AS YOU FALL DEEPER-DEEPER INTO THE BOTTOMLESS PIT. At least you’ll have something to do during that long, long and boring fall.

I am descended from the whores and raped I am a very sexy failure I am a knight in shining disgrace I have faith in the big bad lie complacent in my fucking place I look best when I am high we are descended from the whores and raped we are deluded weak and fake. We dance on the bones of the murdered. We suckle at the teat of genocide. I am descended from rapists and johns. I must love the violent family. I must love the racist family. I must love the family that is mine.

My situation has superseded my whim. Aw, fuck. Damn it. Mine anger finally fully turned inward. The rants of disdain which colored, filled and flushed out my twenties and the bulk of my creative years were all outward towards what had created me. Finally now they turn towards what was actually created. I wasn’t able to stop it. Now shall I fail to change it. Who to reach out to? I’ve cut myself off from all that I could. ON purpose.

FIGHT the FUCK. Nothing better or else to do. Keep hope only as a whiff. Like smelling salts to rouse you if you should nod. Will no one ever save me? Some have I suppose, although I do not remember it distinctly. Saved me over time, over months and years. Never in moments. I’ve never had a mentor. Well one, but he went his own way after a few years. He’d done his art. God I love typos and mistakes. Change hits the fan, I hope in a whiff.

Buy the Book!

(john the hay driver)

AND so any one day was quite often the same as the next for John the Hay Driver, until, on a not particularly unique day, as John the Hay Driver was making his bumpy way through the dark green forest, one of his artificial rubber wheels popped with a compressor malfunction, and it began to rain. John the Hay Driver’s hover-cart slowly swiveled in a pitiful little circle, whizzing and burring, and came to rest in the dirt, soon made mud by the soft, pelting rain. Old John looked up, and a tiny silver droplet went plunk (!) in his eye. As it was already evening and twilight time, it soon grew dark and cold, and still Old John the Hay Driver sat there, on his broken cart, not knowing what to do. Finally, having become very tired and not a just little bit wet, John the Hay Driver jumped up out of his lovely silver hover-cart, and he began to push and pull on it as hard as he could. He found out soon that the soft and silvery rain had turned the ancient asphalt into a thick black mud, and his cart was completely stuck in it, and one by one his collection of golden hay pieces were falling into the dark, colorless and wet earth. It was horrible!

“THIS is horrible, most horrible!” cried John the Hay Driver, though none of the comfortably robed shiny denizens of the average richest suburb in the average shiniest city were there to hear him.

AND Old John the Hay Driver pulled on his silvery but quickly dulling hover-cart until his arm-joints were close to breaking, yet still it would not budge. It would not budge darn it, thought John the Hay Driver. Soon, it was near midnight, the moon was high in the heavens, and the creatures of the lonely night began to creep out into their more textural and scented world. Came the chirping tree frogs, came the singing crickets, came the gliding winged squirrels, came the perfumed skunks, came the clever raccoons, came the flowering moths, came the adorable sharp-clawed bats, came the mockingbirds channeling all spirits of song and came the most knowing and wisest of owls. Old John the Hay Driver saw these living things naught, but he began to hear the evidences of their happy routines over the soft pattering of the rain and the sounds of mud sloshing about his boots as he pulled and pushed, to no avail. Soon, Old John was so distraught; he began to speak to himself.

“I’M John the Hay Driver, I’m John the Hay Driver, and won’t you please help me?” he muttered, quite similar to what he was so used to saying under more pleasant circumstances.

IT made him feel better now to remember the sweet and sparkling suburbs and their shimmering titanium knobbed doors, and pearly white smiles. Most of the animals of night assumed this new sound to be just another of the myriad mysteries of the dark green forest, but the wisest Owl knew different, and he responded in kind.

“Hoo, hoo, who are you?” said the owl.

“I’m John the Hay Driver, and I’m stuck in the mud!” cried John, “Won’t someone please come and help me out?”

But the owl, although wise, knew not what John meant, so he repeated “Hoo, hoo, who are you?”