I.

Sitting in the dwarf hours of the night,
when dawn hasn’t yet whispered:
before me ashes of clove cigarettes;
a pile of powdered yellow snow; ginger-
ale; a pen and note.

Put away the pen, make the potion—
I choke, regain composure, quaff the rest,
and wait.

Across from me the men in a photograph
stare back with red, red eyes.
(In time it will fade, and they will wait.)

* * *

I don’t remember the feel of plastic
in my hand, or banshees storming
at the door, only the taste of charcoal—
black, chalky, and vile;
the rough feel of something being
entered in;
then rubber, and then bile.

Then all the world leaves my mouth,
all the world is charcoal black.

* * *

“Thank you for joining us at [redacted],
we hope you enjoy your stay.
After the way that you just acted,
you’ll be here for days and days.”

* * *

Hand over your wallet, your watch, your
time;
your suspect shoes (laced with death, if
you so choose);
your clothes of course, but also your
face—
we will decide what you are, and what
you ought to be.
We know best of course, with our
notepads and degrees.
Stand right here, wear this bracelet so we
can trace
the patterns of your movements going
nowhere.

Nurse Damon greets me at the common
room—
“Before you enter, know the rules:
keep calm, don’t raise your voice, never
agitate
the shades; take your medicine, slowly
macerate
your food; at night be silent as a tomb.”
With that he stands aside and introduces
me
to them all: the addict worrying at her
scabs
the way ‘49ers sifted sand; the
schizophrenic
who talked to Jesus about how he hates
us all
(a true sign of societal decay: even in
insanity
there is no originality); and then the
Oracle,
gibbering obscenities, her sharp eyes wild.

Turning to me she exhales:
“You’re grist the butthole now, my gear!”
and cackles, sobs, curses, then spits.

Later when I seek her wisdom,
she simply looks outside and howls.

* * *

I shuffle across a Formica sea
to take my morning communion—
white pill, blue pill, yellow pill—
wash them down ritually.
(This is the body and the blood
of Christ Pharmaceutical.)
Then again I sail adrift
until confession therapeutical.

* * *

I see cummings’s satyr sitting
in the rec room with a sloping grin,
crying silently save for a wheeze.
Eddieandbill have lost their marbles (again). . .

In the room the doctors come and go
talking of drugs and placebo.

* * *

What do we do
What do we do
We don’t know what to do with you
What do you put us through?
—Believe me, I’d intended
to be quite through with “you.”

But no-one hears my quiet retort
muffled by Seroquel, and I am short
of consciousness. . .

II.

In the common room, a shelf of books.
The Oracle uses them for auguries:
she hurls them down and stares at them
like bones.
I pick up a dictionary,
bone-yard of old friends.

Words. . . words everywhere, nor any a
drop to think.
My head’s too full of inhibitors; it makes
it hard to think.

Tonight at evening communion I shall
only pretend to drink.

* * *

I’ve discovered the key to recovering
my freedom; it’s easy you see.
Speak evenly and calmly,
impress with intelligence.
I ask the satyr what he thinks—
he winks, and nods and nods.

* * *

Maybe I’ve drunk the Kool-Aid,
bought chicanery and charade.
But it seems to me the body
of an old and broken man
stands where I saw the satyr;
the Oracle no longer sounds to me
like anything but a fraud.

The quiet tastes different now,
not quite sweet, but less sour.

* * *

Running a finger across a smooth beam
and then over roughhewn wood:
the difference between only seeing
sunlight
through a window and feeling its heat
prickle skin.
My eyes water at the brightness, then
begin to flood.
Freedom is almost unbearable—
the air feels heavy round my neck.
The old concerns rush to greet me,
familiar tormentors with their songs,
but I do not think they’ll sing to me
so loudly now, nor as strong.

M. Benjamin Thorne

The Bedlam Dispatch