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The walls. The walls are padded. Padded in grey soft fabric. And there I sit, against a wall, and all is still and quiet, waiting for the lights to walk away into the night. They’ve bound my hands and shackled my feet, and gagged my mouth and stole my seat, and lying here I, motionless, watch the shapes that come and go in the padded grey walls. I’m mad you see I see things others don’t see in walls and doors and cars and shops and people’s eyes and parking lots. In the stars, the sky, the silent night, my mind is sane without the light, in the tenebrous black sanity slips slowly back.
They control the lights in rooms with doors that open when white shoes squeak near along the laminate floor. A mechanical whirr that tells me they’ve gone to a room with switch that turns on the night. And the walls. The walls are windowless. Just padded grey in the harsh neon glow that burns my eyes. And outside the wall is the night, because it’s always night outside, and yet they subject me to the infinite suffering of this neon flickering. Outside the scraping, scratching badger I can hear him, pounding at the walls, scrabbling to get in, away from that mad, mad world. Badger sleeps in a hole in the ground outside, in a hole, but they put him on trial for not paying a fine. For not paying a fine! Sentenced to death wasn’t as good as sentenced to life and the papers needed a scandal to fund the war with the philistine ants that live across Europe in ordered, civilised ways. Sentenced to life and never a hope but inside this asylum he tried to elope to a world of definite, ordered mess and minds corrupted by ceaseless stress. And he calls out my name again and again, and my eyes are watering at the plaintive sound of his family’s tears and the low, soft moan of the vacuum cleaner goes past my door, and the vision is gone as I long for the black, in which sanity slides softly back.
Doors bang and clatter. Chaos reigns in small confined spaces. I am in the asylum; a place where the mad put the sane, until madness seeps back and you’re a-okay. You have to be mad to live out there, in the unbridled storm of humanity, in the crossfire, with the snipers hidden in the undergrowth, waiting silently looking down scopes with traumatised eyes and lining me up, lining me up between the crosshairs, with pious fingers clutching the trigger. Breathing methodically. In out in out my psychiatrist said as he sat in an expensive leather armchair. You must breathe methodically he had said. After my wife had gone, left me, vanished to a man. A man indeed, such a stellar example of masculinity, that I, inferior, was left alone to my mind. They had found me huddled in the corner, close to death, in a foetal position. Waiting. Slowly, methodically waiting until every cell in my body had given up the will to live. They took me to the Doctor. Doctor Proctor of the asylum. And made me sit and watch him in his plush upholstered seat that screamed hypocrisies untold.
“Monstrous! Fantastic! This man’s completely sane! Wait till I tell my illustrious colleagues (nameless hacks) and they’ll want speeches and cheese, Bavarian if I’m not mistake. Yes, Bavarian, buy, buy, buy! Corner the market before lunch or there’ll be no tea. Heavens alive, is that the time? I must be gone to badger’s trial (I hope he’s hung) and you my friend, my paragon of sanity, you can’t come. I’m going to lock you up and eat the key with pickles for lunch and cheese. What’s that? Bavaria is made of cheese, well invade god damn you, invade. I have battle plans to draw up! Murderous! Incredible! Who is this man? Is he wearing a uniform? Then what’s he doing in the war room?! Away with him! Doesn’t he know that Bavaria is made of cheese? Lock him up he must be sane.”
Proctor sang a Phil Collins’ song and danced around the room and swung on the chandeliers while I sat there in my jacket with the arms that went round my back and buckled tightly shut. Before an Orang-utan dressed in a pin-stripe suit came to take me to my room, on the way we talked about life and the stars, from which all life comes, and the Orang-utan revealed himself an Oxford Don brought low by an insatiable quest to have a number one record. And we talked about the stars and life and he asked me why I had tried to die. And I told him. Ten minutes later when he was swinging home through the tree-tops he realised what I had said and I never saw him again. And they put me in this room.
With the light that shines eternal in my eyes, burning, scorching and corrupting. In the light I see images of Proctor, leading his army of highly trained feminists into Bavaria, images of badger trying to escape the sentence of being forced to live in a world of havoc that won’t forgive. And Orang-utan swung in his pin-stripe suit back to Oxford, his college, and a dream. His dream of being on Top of the Pops for 3 minutes and dancing with the vacuous girls who swoon at the stars, and we’re all made of stars you know, because he knew. The light corrupts me, drive me insane and I crave the night of blackest black in which sanity comes storming back and sweeps away this madcap world while I lie coweringly curled. And the light is madness, always on. And I’m Waiting.
Waiting always I wait for the waiting to end, while I wait for the
Click. And the lights are dead and my mind is free and it roams again. Free to wonder and free to twist and free to spiral in never ending spirals and I’m free. And in this place I’ve learnt to live, in this beautiful black, in which sanity shields me from their attack. And oustide they're mad, and I am sane, when the lights go out I'm home again.
They control the lights in rooms with doors that open when white shoes squeak near along the laminate floor. A mechanical whirr that tells me they’ve gone to a room with switch that turns on the night. And the walls. The walls are windowless. Just padded grey in the harsh neon glow that burns my eyes. And outside the wall is the night, because it’s always night outside, and yet they subject me to the infinite suffering of this neon flickering. Outside the scraping, scratching badger I can hear him, pounding at the walls, scrabbling to get in, away from that mad, mad world. Badger sleeps in a hole in the ground outside, in a hole, but they put him on trial for not paying a fine. For not paying a fine! Sentenced to death wasn’t as good as sentenced to life and the papers needed a scandal to fund the war with the philistine ants that live across Europe in ordered, civilised ways. Sentenced to life and never a hope but inside this asylum he tried to elope to a world of definite, ordered mess and minds corrupted by ceaseless stress. And he calls out my name again and again, and my eyes are watering at the plaintive sound of his family’s tears and the low, soft moan of the vacuum cleaner goes past my door, and the vision is gone as I long for the black, in which sanity slides softly back.
Doors bang and clatter. Chaos reigns in small confined spaces. I am in the asylum; a place where the mad put the sane, until madness seeps back and you’re a-okay. You have to be mad to live out there, in the unbridled storm of humanity, in the crossfire, with the snipers hidden in the undergrowth, waiting silently looking down scopes with traumatised eyes and lining me up, lining me up between the crosshairs, with pious fingers clutching the trigger. Breathing methodically. In out in out my psychiatrist said as he sat in an expensive leather armchair. You must breathe methodically he had said. After my wife had gone, left me, vanished to a man. A man indeed, such a stellar example of masculinity, that I, inferior, was left alone to my mind. They had found me huddled in the corner, close to death, in a foetal position. Waiting. Slowly, methodically waiting until every cell in my body had given up the will to live. They took me to the Doctor. Doctor Proctor of the asylum. And made me sit and watch him in his plush upholstered seat that screamed hypocrisies untold.
“Monstrous! Fantastic! This man’s completely sane! Wait till I tell my illustrious colleagues (nameless hacks) and they’ll want speeches and cheese, Bavarian if I’m not mistake. Yes, Bavarian, buy, buy, buy! Corner the market before lunch or there’ll be no tea. Heavens alive, is that the time? I must be gone to badger’s trial (I hope he’s hung) and you my friend, my paragon of sanity, you can’t come. I’m going to lock you up and eat the key with pickles for lunch and cheese. What’s that? Bavaria is made of cheese, well invade god damn you, invade. I have battle plans to draw up! Murderous! Incredible! Who is this man? Is he wearing a uniform? Then what’s he doing in the war room?! Away with him! Doesn’t he know that Bavaria is made of cheese? Lock him up he must be sane.”
Proctor sang a Phil Collins’ song and danced around the room and swung on the chandeliers while I sat there in my jacket with the arms that went round my back and buckled tightly shut. Before an Orang-utan dressed in a pin-stripe suit came to take me to my room, on the way we talked about life and the stars, from which all life comes, and the Orang-utan revealed himself an Oxford Don brought low by an insatiable quest to have a number one record. And we talked about the stars and life and he asked me why I had tried to die. And I told him. Ten minutes later when he was swinging home through the tree-tops he realised what I had said and I never saw him again. And they put me in this room.
With the light that shines eternal in my eyes, burning, scorching and corrupting. In the light I see images of Proctor, leading his army of highly trained feminists into Bavaria, images of badger trying to escape the sentence of being forced to live in a world of havoc that won’t forgive. And Orang-utan swung in his pin-stripe suit back to Oxford, his college, and a dream. His dream of being on Top of the Pops for 3 minutes and dancing with the vacuous girls who swoon at the stars, and we’re all made of stars you know, because he knew. The light corrupts me, drive me insane and I crave the night of blackest black in which sanity comes storming back and sweeps away this madcap world while I lie coweringly curled. And the light is madness, always on. And I’m Waiting.
Waiting always I wait for the waiting to end, while I wait for the
Click. And the lights are dead and my mind is free and it roams again. Free to wonder and free to twist and free to spiral in never ending spirals and I’m free. And in this place I’ve learnt to live, in this beautiful black, in which sanity shields me from their attack. And oustide they're mad, and I am sane, when the lights go out I'm home again.
The walls. The walls are padded. Padded in grey soft fabric. And there I sit, against a wall, and all is still and quiet, waiting for the lights to walk away into the night. They’ve bound my hands and shackled my feet, and gagged my mouth and stole my seat, and lying here I, motionless, watch the shapes that come and go in the padded grey walls. I’m mad you see I see things others don’t see in walls and doors and cars and shops and people’s eyes and parking lots. In the stars, the sky, the silent night, my mind is sane without the light, in the tenebrous black sanity slips slowly back.
They control the lights in rooms with doors that open when white shoes squeak near along the laminate floor. A mechanical whirr that tells me they’ve gone to a room with switch that turns on the night. And the walls. The walls are windowless. Just padded grey in the harsh neon glow that burns my eyes. And outside the wall is the night, because it’s always night outside, and yet they subject me to the infinite suffering of this neon flickering. Outside the scraping, scratching badger I can hear him, pounding at the walls, scrabbling to get in, away from that mad, mad world. Badger sleeps in a hole in the ground outside, in a hole, but they put him on trial for not paying a fine. For not paying a fine! Sentenced to death wasn’t as good as sentenced to life and the papers needed a scandal to fund the war with the philistine ants that live across Europe in ordered, civilised ways. Sentenced to life and never a hope but inside this asylum he tried to elope to a world of definite, ordered mess and minds corrupted by ceaseless stress. And he calls out my name again and again, and my eyes are watering at the plaintive sound of his family’s tears and the low, soft moan of the vacuum cleaner goes past my door, and the vision is gone as I long for the black, in which sanity slides softly back.
Doors bang and clatter. Chaos reigns in small confined spaces. I am in the asylum; a place where the mad put the sane, until madness seeps back and you’re a-okay. You have to be mad to live out there, in the unbridled storm of humanity, in the crossfire, with the snipers hidden in the undergrowth, waiting silently looking down scopes with traumatised eyes and lining me up, lining me up between the crosshairs, with pious fingers clutching the trigger. Breathing methodically. In out in out my psychiatrist said as he sat in an expensive leather armchair. You must breathe methodically he had said. After my wife had gone, left me, vanished to a man. A man indeed, such a stellar example of masculinity, that I, inferior, was left alone to my mind. They had found me huddled in the corner, close to death, in a foetal position. Waiting. Slowly, methodically waiting until every cell in my body had given up the will to live. They took me to the Doctor. Doctor Proctor of the asylum. And made me sit and watch him in his plush upholstered seat that screamed hypocrisies untold.
“Monstrous! Fantastic! This man’s completely sane! Wait till I tell my illustrious colleagues (nameless hacks) and they’ll want speeches and cheese, Bavarian if I’m not mistake. Yes, Bavarian, buy, buy, buy! Corner the market before lunch or there’ll be no tea. Heavens alive, is that the time? I must be gone to badger’s trial (I hope he’s hung) and you my friend, my paragon of sanity, you can’t come. I’m going to lock you up and eat the key with pickles for lunch and cheese. What’s that? Bavaria is made of cheese, well invade god damn you, invade. I have battle plans to draw up! Murderous! Incredible! Who is this man? Is he wearing a uniform? Then what’s he doing in the war room?! Away with him! Doesn’t he know that Bavaria is made of cheese? Lock him up he must be sane.”
Proctor sang a Phil Collins’ song and danced around the room and swung on the chandeliers while I sat there in my jacket with the arms that went round my back and buckled tightly shut. Before an Orang-utan dressed in a pin-stripe suit came to take me to my room, on the way we talked about life and the stars, from which all life comes, and the Orang-utan revealed himself an Oxford Don brought low by an insatiable quest to have a number one record. And we talked about the stars and life and he asked me why I had tried to die. And I told him. Ten minutes later when he was swinging home through the tree-tops he realised what I had said and I never saw him again. And they put me in this room.
With the light that shines eternal in my eyes, burning, scorching and corrupting. In the light I see images of Proctor, leading his army of highly trained feminists into Bavaria, images of badger trying to escape the sentence of being forced to live in a world of havoc that won’t forgive. And Orang-utan swung in his pin-stripe suit back to Oxford, his college, and a dream. His dream of being on Top of the Pops for 3 minutes and dancing with the vacuous girls who swoon at the stars, and we’re all made of stars you know, because he knew. The light corrupts me, drive me insane and I crave the night of blackest black in which sanity comes storming back and sweeps away this madcap world while I lie coweringly curled. And the light is madness, always on. And I’m Waiting.
Waiting always I wait for the waiting to end, while I wait for the
Click. And the lights are dead and my mind is free and it roams again. Free to wonder and free to twist and free to spiral in never ending spirals and I’m free. And in this place I’ve learnt to live, in this beautiful black, in which sanity shields me from their attack. And oustide they're mad, and I am sane, when the lights go out I'm home again.
They control the lights in rooms with doors that open when white shoes squeak near along the laminate floor. A mechanical whirr that tells me they’ve gone to a room with switch that turns on the night. And the walls. The walls are windowless. Just padded grey in the harsh neon glow that burns my eyes. And outside the wall is the night, because it’s always night outside, and yet they subject me to the infinite suffering of this neon flickering. Outside the scraping, scratching badger I can hear him, pounding at the walls, scrabbling to get in, away from that mad, mad world. Badger sleeps in a hole in the ground outside, in a hole, but they put him on trial for not paying a fine. For not paying a fine! Sentenced to death wasn’t as good as sentenced to life and the papers needed a scandal to fund the war with the philistine ants that live across Europe in ordered, civilised ways. Sentenced to life and never a hope but inside this asylum he tried to elope to a world of definite, ordered mess and minds corrupted by ceaseless stress. And he calls out my name again and again, and my eyes are watering at the plaintive sound of his family’s tears and the low, soft moan of the vacuum cleaner goes past my door, and the vision is gone as I long for the black, in which sanity slides softly back.
Doors bang and clatter. Chaos reigns in small confined spaces. I am in the asylum; a place where the mad put the sane, until madness seeps back and you’re a-okay. You have to be mad to live out there, in the unbridled storm of humanity, in the crossfire, with the snipers hidden in the undergrowth, waiting silently looking down scopes with traumatised eyes and lining me up, lining me up between the crosshairs, with pious fingers clutching the trigger. Breathing methodically. In out in out my psychiatrist said as he sat in an expensive leather armchair. You must breathe methodically he had said. After my wife had gone, left me, vanished to a man. A man indeed, such a stellar example of masculinity, that I, inferior, was left alone to my mind. They had found me huddled in the corner, close to death, in a foetal position. Waiting. Slowly, methodically waiting until every cell in my body had given up the will to live. They took me to the Doctor. Doctor Proctor of the asylum. And made me sit and watch him in his plush upholstered seat that screamed hypocrisies untold.
“Monstrous! Fantastic! This man’s completely sane! Wait till I tell my illustrious colleagues (nameless hacks) and they’ll want speeches and cheese, Bavarian if I’m not mistake. Yes, Bavarian, buy, buy, buy! Corner the market before lunch or there’ll be no tea. Heavens alive, is that the time? I must be gone to badger’s trial (I hope he’s hung) and you my friend, my paragon of sanity, you can’t come. I’m going to lock you up and eat the key with pickles for lunch and cheese. What’s that? Bavaria is made of cheese, well invade god damn you, invade. I have battle plans to draw up! Murderous! Incredible! Who is this man? Is he wearing a uniform? Then what’s he doing in the war room?! Away with him! Doesn’t he know that Bavaria is made of cheese? Lock him up he must be sane.”
Proctor sang a Phil Collins’ song and danced around the room and swung on the chandeliers while I sat there in my jacket with the arms that went round my back and buckled tightly shut. Before an Orang-utan dressed in a pin-stripe suit came to take me to my room, on the way we talked about life and the stars, from which all life comes, and the Orang-utan revealed himself an Oxford Don brought low by an insatiable quest to have a number one record. And we talked about the stars and life and he asked me why I had tried to die. And I told him. Ten minutes later when he was swinging home through the tree-tops he realised what I had said and I never saw him again. And they put me in this room.
With the light that shines eternal in my eyes, burning, scorching and corrupting. In the light I see images of Proctor, leading his army of highly trained feminists into Bavaria, images of badger trying to escape the sentence of being forced to live in a world of havoc that won’t forgive. And Orang-utan swung in his pin-stripe suit back to Oxford, his college, and a dream. His dream of being on Top of the Pops for 3 minutes and dancing with the vacuous girls who swoon at the stars, and we’re all made of stars you know, because he knew. The light corrupts me, drive me insane and I crave the night of blackest black in which sanity comes storming back and sweeps away this madcap world while I lie coweringly curled. And the light is madness, always on. And I’m Waiting.
Waiting always I wait for the waiting to end, while I wait for the
Click. And the lights are dead and my mind is free and it roams again. Free to wonder and free to twist and free to spiral in never ending spirals and I’m free. And in this place I’ve learnt to live, in this beautiful black, in which sanity shields me from their attack. And oustide they're mad, and I am sane, when the lights go out I'm home again.
Doctor Proctor is basically Dr.Benway from "The Naked Lunch" by William Burroughs, whose style I tried to copy. I was trying to write something completely mad. and random. He did it by chopping up things he had written and sticking them back together at random. And it worked. I did it by writing the first things to come into my head.
It's does have some meaning, but i think it's quite cool, in a fairly madcap way. Anyway, I'll understand if you abuse it, so don't worry about insulting me :-)
It's does have some meaning, but i think it's quite cool, in a fairly madcap way. Anyway, I'll understand if you abuse it, so don't worry about insulting me :-)
Wow, that is compelling reading! I do wonder about your state of mind though seeing as it came from the top of your head!! :P Maybe a day with a shrink wouldn't hurt! ;)
ha ha :-)
I do write normally too:
This one is quite good, with a weird-ish time scale:
http://www.literatureclassics.com/showcreative.asp?IDNo=323
This is probably the best thing I've written about a little boy made entirely of glass:
http://www.LiteratureClassics.com/showcreative.asp?IDNo=324
I do write normally too:
This one is quite good, with a weird-ish time scale:
http://www.literatureclassics.com/showcreative.asp?IDNo=323
This is probably the best thing I've written about a little boy made entirely of glass:
http://www.LiteratureClassics.com/showcreative.asp?IDNo=324
They've both been posted at various times
Thanks very much for the compliment though :-D
*grins from ear to ear*
Thanks very much for the compliment though :-D
*grins from ear to ear*
Just read it, it's very madcap. Quite interesting too. They always say insane people be;ieve they are sane while others are mad. Maybe they're right...
By the way, the click is the click of a gun not of a switch.
He turns his own lights out literally because the asylum lights are always on.
He turns his own lights out literally because the asylum lights are always on.
hmm. Didn't look at it that way. Suppose it's one way to 'free your mind' as it were.
I liked it, Mr. Happy. Very cool stream of consciousness stuff, and not at all forced which is the danger when you're writing like that. At the risk of a blatant plug for my own stuff, have you read my story 'The Salesman' in this forum? It had a rather tragic plunge down the list due - I hope - to its length more than anything else. It's much tighter and more controlled prose than I would normally write, but I like it for that.
Congrats again on an excellent piece of writing.
Congrats again on an excellent piece of writing.