The house is full of ghosts. It is full of ghosts. The house ghost-filled. Full. Ghosts yammering and stammering. Guilty ghosts and ghosts of guilt. Ghosts that tell me I did wrong and should suffer. Ghosts of suffering, ghosts that sing of suffrage. I ignore them. I ignore them. I ignore them while I stammer and stutter while listening to their yammer and stammer. They came when I was left alone to my madness. They have never left. They came when I was left alone. They came when I was truly left alone, with no path left but to leave to be alone. They yammer incessantly. Ceaseless is their incessant yammer. It is a babble without cease, in Babel voices, yammering and stammering and blammering and crammering till my brain is so full I cannot for the life of me think nor blink nor stink nor wink. No joke this. This yoke is no joke. I have been stripped by experience. Caustic experience coruscates at a distance, and cauterises, and flays. Who can joke when they are a tissue of blood? Is it that? It could be more. Is it that? It could be more. Love. I fell in love for the first time. We are apart again. The voices, the ghosts, the incessant, unceasing, yammering ghosts, they gnaw my brain, they dig their teeth into my grey blancmange, they suck my lobes, and they lascive over my poor coils of brain-turd. Love. We are having a holiday, love and I. So the ghosts think they can come back. They are here. Herewith, a billion paranoid fantasies of hideousness: my children burning to death, the world dying, every good man and woman being turned out into hell, the caryatids shrugging off their buildings. The yammer is loud, as loud as tintinabulations of pandemonium. Guilt. I wilt and walk on broken stilts, just to keep my head above the shit-bells, that strike with a fart as the clapper swings like a turd about to drop. What now, brown cow? Distract yourself by pat-flinging at the ghastly, ghostly fetes? Ignore the noises. Ignore the guilt. Ghosts are guilt. Love is the antidote. I am useless here. I have no purpose here. The ghosts say die. I say there will be a day. The ghosts shout Die. Can someone prescribe me an exorcist? I know one, and she loves me, but I need her more than she needs me. I owe her a holiday, and a cock to Asclepius. Silence, ghosts. Be quiet. Leave me alone. My children turning into fiends. My youngest a yob. My fault. I left. I didn't stay to kill myself. Die you bastard. It must have been a ghost made me say that. Turds. Children. Guilt. Ghosts. Love.
And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep; and if I weep, 'Tis that our nature cannot always bring Itself to apathy, which we must steep First in the icy depths of Lethe's spring Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep; Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx; A mortal mother would on Lethe fix.
~ George Gordon Noel Byron ~ Don Juan, Canto IV, 4.
It is thus that the few rare lucid well-disposed people who have had to struggle on the earth find themselves at certain hours of the day or night in the depth of certain authentic and waking nightmare states, surrounded by the formidable suction, the formidable tentacular oppression of a kind of civic magic which will soon be seen appearing openly in social behavior. - Antonin Artaud