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My situation has superseded my whim.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.

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