Recovery

I've got a confession to make. I'm not Jaz. Very few of you have ever met Jaz, infact. I wear his skin and I answer to his name, but I'm just a creature, a goblin or something that stole him away and lived in his place. But hear me out, because I'm a sad little thing and wretched with guilt. I'm going to make this right. Listen to my woes for a second.

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My head

Lots of things have happened. The most recent and relevant thing is that I am changing my meds, so my moodswings are very erratic and frequent at the minute, seems like. I could also experience other weird side effects in the next few days.

The next recent thing: I am mentally ill, and I've been tentatively diagnosed with cyclothymia. Cyclothymia is the mildest form of bipolar disorder. What that means is, sometimes I'm hypomanic, and sometimes I'm dysthymic. I don't know what the difference is between dysthymia and a major depressive episode, and I don't know if my doctor knows which I've got or if he's just doing what all good doctors do when they're making the first couple judgement calls for mental illness: having a pretty good guess.

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It looks like a shoe?

This is a positive poem! I don't know how the fuck it happened, I promise. Happy new year, ya dobbers.

On auto
By Jaz McDougall
31 December 2011

I'm drowning in a gale.
This is the touch I need:
the roar of time and death
as little hairs celebrate me.

Sky boiling over, leaves race past,
I sway at the centre, hushed, still.
Every moment forgets the last.
I wish my thoughts felt like this.

And why not? Who makes me,
when everything I use to identify me
has flaked off and rubbed away?
Who chooses what I want?

Could the wind take me away and
bring another back in my place?
Could it shave away the fear
and put a smile on my face?

Could the smile help me smile
on the inside too? Could standing
strong help me be strong, and feel strong too?
Could living life like it matters help it matter to me?
Could I hold myself tight and say "everything will be all right?"
Could I marry myself and vow never to leave, could I promise that
at my funeral I'd be the first one to grieve, could I love who I am and love
who I could be, could I love nobody better, more fiercely, more loyally than me?

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Being dead

Bad, bad week. Expect a jolly post once this lifts. Until then: FOREVER EMODARK

Being dead
By Jaz McDougall
30 December 2011

Touching air.
Speaking silence.
Tasting hunger.
Walking nowhere.
Looking dark.
Singing sadly.
Feeling numb.
Loving badly.

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Fucked by a troll

Thought these were getting a bit heavy, so here's a poem about getting a sound dicking from a troll.

Edit: it worried me that one or two people were assuming this was a poem about rape. Obviously that's not what this is, but just to clear up any ambiguity, I've added in a few stanzas at the front that makes it clear whose choice this all is. And lots of delicious, pert, bouncing assonance.

Fucked by a troll
By Jaz McDougall
29 December 2011

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Make me a stone

Make me a stone
By Jaz McDougall
28 December 2011

Make me a stone,
and I'll never ache,
and I'll never hurt,
and I'll never feel.

Make me a sword,
and I'll never give,
and I'll never guard,
and I'll never yield.

Make me a heart,
and I'll never speak,
and I'll never think,
and I'll never break.

Make me a lover,
and I'll always ache,
always hurt, feel, give,
always guard, yield, speak.
Always, always think.

But one day, we will break.
Put the sword through the heart,
turn to stone, and unmake.

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They go

They go
By Jaz McDougall
27 December 2011

I sweat them out into my mattress.
I blink them from reddened eyes.
I shave them from my scalp.
I shit them into the toilet.
I squirt them in fists.
I spit into the sink.
I give them away.
I let them out.
I lose them.
They go,
I don't.
I
feel
like I
should
want them
back, but when
they go, I get less
human, less worried,
less angry, invested, alive.
I don't care as much about traffic
or justice or trying so hard to survive.

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