Call it what you will; It looks dirty on a page. Sometimes I want to give it an airing – like position it on those double-letter-triple-word Scrabble squares, or adopt a goat and sear its untroubled hide with pathology, or yell it from the seawall, into a forest of anemone and periwinkles. The wind will take it on the chin. The evening will gulp it back, like it is an everyday meal.
I will only squirm softly. I promise I won’t yell it back, into the suburbs, across the tenements, over public swimming baths and over the lawns of people who drink maraschino cherries in their Sunday cocktails. Call it what you might. It is a strange aberration. I am a cowboy and a dissident, in these temperate zone places. I am a bearer of abominable names.
Schizophrenia is a cannibalistic Matryoshka doll; it is innocence without alibi, the final spasms of the yard hen decapitated. It is double-binds and cognitive-dissonance and an invective dinner for one. Your eyeball is not your own.