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Dr. Bob is Robert Hsiung, MD,
bob@dr-bob.orgShown: posts 1 to 6 of 6. This is the beginning of the thread.
Posted by Atticus on August 14, 2004, at 14:56:09
Pulp, 1997
Dozens of blue-gray corpses
Embedded in the mud
And swirling silt
At the bottom
Of the swampy waters
In the Jersey Meadowlands.
We're dressed in suits,
Fine silk dresses,
Sunday best
Now in ragged filaments,
Cloth and tattered skin
Undulating
In rhythmic accompaniment
To the weeds
Dancing
In the sluggish
Currents.
All victims
Of a killer,
Serial killer
In the city,
Still out there,
Still adding
To our ranks
Every day.Fish suck blobs of
Pulpy flesh
Grown soft as pudding
From our cheeks,
From our foreheads,
From our fingertips,
Nibble our eyes,
And we realize
That the dead
Can feel everything,
Everything,
Each indignity
Heaped upon them,
The worms wriggling
Through our guts,
Turtles gnawing
At our ribs,
It all hurts,
It all hurts
Forever.Eyeless sockets
Sense flat-bottomed skiffs,
Motors churning contrails
Of silver bubbles
Like distant jets
Far overhead.
We hear voices,
The joyous laughter
Of those
Who dwell
Above the water,
And we try
To scream
"We are here!"
But it's pointless,
Useless,
Our tongues
Were devoured
Long ago.
We experience
Our putrefaction
With exquisite
Precision
As each cell
Withers,
Consumed by bacteria.
Time means nothing
In the miasma
Where we pray
And pray
And pray
For an end
To all sensation,
But that won't happen.
Even bones
Groan silently
In eternal pain.My eyes snap open,
See a sweat-soaked
Pillow.
Christ, a dream,
What a fu**ing dream.
Can't believe my mind
Can conjure
Such things.
The sickness takes me,
Third day
With no Xanax,
Used it up
Way too soon.
Joints are locked up
So tightly,
I think
I can hear
Their rusty, grinding
Creaking.
Head's crushed
Under the damp weight
Of its own chemicals.
Phantom fish
Still sting my skin,
Appetites insatiable,
Their assault relentless.
Need a drink,
And not of water.
I fill a glass
With Jack Daniels,
Toss it down
Like juice,
Its fire
Slamming
Into my stomach,
A white-hot
Metal gauntlet
Curled
Into a fist.I spot the goldfish
In their
Globe-like bowl
Atop the kitchen counter,
Snatch it up
And hurl it
Against
The cabinets,
Then watch the fish
Flopping desperately
Among the glass shards
With grim
Satisfaction.
Eat me now,
You bast**ds,
No more free lunch
Tonight.
Light flicks on
Overhead,
A gasp
Over my right shoulder,
And I turn
To see my wife Alyssa,
Her blue irises
Reduced to tiny rafts
Adrift
In seas of white,
Her left hand
Clutched over her mouth.
"Just let them try
To eat me now,"
I say in explanation,
But she's frozen,
Aghast,
As the fish
Shudder
And gasp
And die.I yank open
The fridge,
Snatch up a carton
Of orange juice,
Down a swig.
"With extra pulp,"
The label proclaims,
And I vomit
Into the sink.
The sound
Of weeping
Rises
From the sofa-bed
Behind me,
And I should go to her,
But I don't
Because I can't,
Not anymore.
The dead belong
Under the water,
And their rotting embrace
Is the last thing
The living need.
-- Atticus
Posted by Jai Narayan on August 15, 2004, at 11:46:00
In reply to poem ... Pulp, 1997, posted by Atticus on August 14, 2004, at 14:56:09
Out standing.
You made me understand why you threw the fish but did Alyssa ever get the benefit of your clarity?
I have always loved the idea of being under water.
Your under water is torturous.
Stunningly described depiction of pain.
I can feel the critters tugging and pulling.
Another similarity between us: "this may bake your noodle"
but I was madly in love once in my life and he lives in Minnesota. He called himself Richard Blue. It still has a tiny effect on me now.Jai Narayan of peasants who were against the government in Ireland and had knives built right into their farm tools.
Posted by Atticus on August 15, 2004, at 14:06:35
In reply to Re: poem ... Pulp, 1997, posted by Jai Narayan on August 15, 2004, at 11:46:00
I couldn't even begin to explain it until I was able to refill the Xanax prescription; cold-turkey benzo withdrawl is one of the most agonizing things I've ever experienced, and it produced the nightmare I describe here -- just the worst in my life. I don't think I would have even remembered the nightmare if I hadn't awoke to the sound of glass being swept up the next morning. When Alyssa told me I'd gotten up in the middle of the night and trashed the fishbowl and killed the fish, the dream came rushing back with stunning force, and I've never forgotten it. I did make a muddled attempt to explain what had provoked the incident, but the dream itself was so repulsive and gruesome that I think my description of it unnerved her more than my throwing the bowl; I had the definite feeling, watching her face as she listened, that she was thinking, "I can't handle being with someone who's this sick; it's worse than I ever imagined." Even I myself was pretty horrified that my mind could create such a thing, so it's not hard to guess that she was, too, and was probably wondering if there was worse to come (and unfortunately, there was). Abusing a combo of benzos and booze is a recipe for catastrophe. There was also this sense of dissociation -- that I was no longer part of the human race somehow. Given how tiny our studio apartment was, I don't know how she hung on even as long as she did. 1997 and 1998 were just the worst -- a very hard place for me to allow my head to go in order to write this poem. Or at least they were until this past spring, when I finally pulled the rip cord and tried to bail out. Strange days, indeed. Atticus
Posted by Jai Narayan on August 15, 2004, at 20:06:38
In reply to Re: poem ... Pulp, 1997 » Jai Narayan, posted by Atticus on August 15, 2004, at 14:06:35
what led up to this spring?
Are you going to put together a poem about how you arrived at the decision?
I agree the images in this poem have a scary element but they are also so much of what this planet is about.
Jai Narayan from the emerald Isle in my dreams
Posted by Atticus on August 16, 2004, at 11:16:58
In reply to Re: poem ... Pulp, 1997, posted by Jai Narayan on August 15, 2004, at 20:06:38
Hmmm. Trying to encapsulate what led up to my climactic attempt at self-obliteration is something I'm not sure I can get my head around just yet. At the moment, I feel it was an emotional and psychological tsunami set in motion 20 years earlier -- when the depression first struck at age 13 -- that finally broke on top of me. So I guess my answer is that this entire story cycle of poems about my past (except "Spots," "Almost 6," and "Atomic Cafe," which take place in the hospital and at home immediately after the suicide attempt, or in the case of "Atomic," is a metaphor for feelings I experienced as my family and I worked to forge a new kind of relationship) is an attempt to explain and understand what led up to this past spring's events. I'm finding that when I look back, I see a lot of triggers spread out over a long time. If these poems were put into chronological order, they'd form one big poem about why I slit my left wrist and forearm -- and there are still important bits of information missing, I think. These poems are, at their heart, an attempt to understand myself and to come to terms with a pattern of self-immolation that I now believe began much earlier than I'd ever previously realized. Atticus
Posted by Jai Narayan on August 16, 2004, at 17:56:25
In reply to Re: poem ... Pulp, 1997 » Jai Narayan, posted by Atticus on August 16, 2004, at 11:16:58
Dear Atticus, You are so amazing. I think you are brave and kind.
I am one of your most devoted readers.
Jai Narayan the child at the poets feet.
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