buttocks-brains

Page Eight

sehnen posted on Apr 22, 2008 | views: 213 | Tags: helpersx                                             

still tuesday 22nd… april 2008

Time for one more poem. This is Number 6.  They don’t have titles, just numbers.

                      I can see your backs
                      fleeing
                      fleeing the scene
                      fleeing the scene of my collapse.
 
                      You don’t see my face
                      withering
                      withering into cronehood, agony,
                      and the cold ground.
                      You won’t face my face
                      that you left in a gutter to rot.
                      You give me only your backs,
                      your bureaucracy buttocks,
                      and your bottomless fountain of lies.

I wander the streets as long as my sick body, my raging immune system will let me. I do this so I won’t have to go back to a sleeping place that doesn’t have them in it. My family, the animals.

If you care about someone who has mental health issues, I ask you again to keep them away from the Mass DMH. It’s a state agency, so they’re everywhere in Massachusetts. Keep away. Getting mixed up with them was the worst mistake I ever made, and I’ve made some big ones. I lost everything.

Update 18 May 2009:  It was a psychiatrist in New Hampshire who told me last August that what the feds seem to have done to me was illegal. He was evaluating me and I told him that when he heard my story he’d call me delusional. He didn’t. Instead he said: “They’re not supposed to use you as bait without your consent. That’s illegal. But if the feds breaks the law, what can you do?” Now, maybe the guy was just shining me on. But at the time I took his words at face value, and it was the first I ever heard that using me to catch Matthew’s “big fish” without my consent might be against the law. That’s when my thinking turned much angrier and much more desperate, to think that a good portion of my suffering was at the hands of lawbreakers who were no better than the criminals they chase. The idea that I was bait came to me on my own. As I got the words from Matthew over July and August of last year about death threats to me and people protecting me, and them wanting to catch those “big fish,” I thought: Weren’t they  supposed to put me in a home and protect me? And if they didn’t do it that way, if they put me on the streets, then I must be bait. I’d bring it up to Matthew, this concept of me being bait, often. He never either agreed to it or disputed it. Not until a couple of weeks ago, on May 3rd. I was talking to him about being used as bait, and he said, “If that’s what they did.” Implying, I suppose, that they didn’t. But there was no offer of an explanation as to what they did do.

Besides, Matthew’s stance this year has changed dramatically. I’ve only been back in greenfield since 23 April, and he has had me to his hovel on 27 April and on 3 May. The attitude now has been adversarial in ways that it never was last year. He’s impatient and mean-spirited most of the time. So much for love. Maybe I’ll have a drink and toast his constancy.

In any case, it’s entirely possible that the Department of Mental Health were not the only butt-brains that I had in my life when I first wrote this post.

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read…   Shadowpoems…   Scealta liatha

(liam manchester’s crow at www.toscano.com)

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2011by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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