The Meaning of This!

This is stuff excavated, cut and pasted from a miscellany of stuff resurrected from a dead hard drive.


The BNP’s sad demise

The last one left, don't leave the house
In case that Greek bloke Alexis
Tsipras or that Podemos bloke,
Or the terrorist on Princess Street
Thinks you're a dish like all gay men 
do or others wearing scarves
Around their heads called Mohammed
Recognise you, form a crowd
Of people keen to quash free speech
When you shout out they should go home
By which you mean not Princess Street
But Islamland, a desert vista
With camels, guns and crescent moons
And paedophiles and things gone mad
Just like the new railway crossing
They voted for up in town hall
And asked you to support for bribes
That you accepted, like them all
Elites that make you feel at home
To win a vote no matter what.
The world's an oyster in the South of France
to each his own, to each his lot,
but all's like here with different weather.
The wife agrees with you that meat
we're forced to buy from Pakis
do not have thorough vetting ethics.
What women wear clearly oppresses
Their freedom to clean and iron shirts
For you as well as breed a child
With views they share, a battleground
In this old town the browns spat on
Like shit it passes for community
I'd rather I didn't live much here
The BNP has had it's day -
Those red-necked scumbags from UKIP
And pinkies with their corrupt ways
Blot with ink the last white paper
I stand alone: a scarecrow in fog.
While socialists eat their other's curses
smiling as they ramble on
in towers made of melting ice
on grounds they made with broken hearses
of victims from the World War 2
When British flags were used.
The Icke lizards from Highlander two.
With cash, the claimants wipe their arses
in Johns, me, John sit in the hall
most days in cubicles, foreign flu.
I went to Spain - never again
The risk of terror is way too much
And it's too late when you get caught -
A racist shouldn't get sunburnt.


Just a word of warning this. If you’re ever considering going on SSRIs, I recommend that you don’t. Ever. As your erstwhile guinea pig, don’t go don’t that route. Or the CBT. The thing you’ve got to say to all this is, right, what if, right, I’m fucking right, and you’re fucking wrong.

Look at the evidence and try to ascertain from that evidence that my depression is a symptom of just internal thoughts going on. I’ve just read an utterly convincing neo-hegemonic peer-revieved account of the ways in which neoliberal practice has infiltrated our schooling system from cradle to grave. Now they’re using that to decimate the welfare state, sell off the public services, and kill off 9 tenths of the population of the country so they can turn it into Qatar.

I dedided to quit the pills because they were just making me mong out and feel generally depressed and guilty about not doing anything. Now I’ve fucking told everybody I’m depressed, got the t-shirt etc., everyone’s got this weird “I’m with a depressive” sign hanging around their necks which doesn’t make me want to hang around with them any more.

I don’t want to be given all that person-centred therapy crap they give out to all the rookies like Clova and Laura and all that lot and I wrote about fucking decades ago. Nor do I want to be given advice from somebody who hasn’t feel depressed ever, but was a bit down once when he had to choose an appropriate career route. Magnify that experience by 1000, get into the hermaneutics of “career routes” in general, where it leads to – pain, regret and death, and do please get back to me.

So yeah, I felt like a 50s housewife on valium for a bit, which I suspect is what they’re chiefly designed for, or picked out for.

In all honesty the cure to all this shit came in the form of the old school valium, or etizolam, which I think I’ve finally got under control, within a dose threshold that stops the eye-popping anxiety I have always felt, the dreadful death insomnia, etc., but stops me monging out for weeks doing fuck all. My dose is 4mg.

Anyway, the SSRI withdrawal isn’t even horrible. Its just fucking intense.

“Oh look there’s a can of peas.”

I’m going to cry uncontrollably about that can of peas for the next half hour.

I also get electric shocks in the end of my nose and in my jaw.

2. Types of People

There are birth rate people and death rate people. Birth rate people do things without thinking about things and tend to have children. Death rate people are obsessed about the consequences of their actions to the point that its sheer gravity engulfs all thought.

The People (1)

In the space of a couple of hours I found myself washed up sober in a world that I no

longer understood. My particular form of alcoholism led to the gradual erosion of

everything social. One of my desires was to look out of the window and to not have

any other cunt looking back in at me. My elixir was television.

But since my third decade passed seamlessly into my fourth, I became

too paranoid to leave the house beyond the essentials – cigarettes, alcohol, the

occasional sack of potatoes. Paranoia made me shift off-licences every night. With

the shrinking of my world came a disproportionate obsession with what other

people were thinking. I assumed that the shame-laced prick within was always

visible to passers-by. The disproportionate contempt I felt for other people told

me that I had failed to cut them off. I drank rather than died and that told me that

some part of me did not want them to disappear. Rather, I wanted to control and

simplify all human opinion into one inseparable mass. Addicts are dictators without

opportunities. Dictators are people whose position, status or physiognomy causes

them to ignore differences between people. People are, well, people are. There

they are.