Netflix hates me

There's something wrong with you, New Zealand

I have a problem with Netflix. Sure I’ll still recommend to everyone because it’s kind of the best thing ever, but it’s also kind of not.

I spent the last 3 days drinking, smoking weed, chain smoking cigarettes, and mostly AWAKE. Today I woke up at noon, fooled around online for ten minutes and decided I wasn’t ready to face the day. It was nearly 7pm when I felt I might be able to support my whole body on my own two feet.

The shower and change of clothes made me feel a little lighter, but my head somehow is still heavier than normal. And it feels kind of empty. I’m afraid I might’ve done permanent damage. Lest you call me a pothead; I drank way more than I smoked. So if anything, it’s alcoholic you’re going for. In my opinion, I’m just a trooper.

Feeling awake yet incompetent, I looked to Netflix for help. I have a 2-at-a-time plan, and have been making an effort to get only one serious/depressing movie delivered each time, the other being slightly less demanding of me. I hadn’t been home since Thursday so I expected to find two titles in my mail: a depressing one and a comedy, In the Loop. Something engaging yet lighthearted.

But that title isn’t with my mail. For some reason Netflix only sent me one movie, and it isn’t a fun one. Drugstore Cowboy is a Gus Van Sant movie about junkies. I’m slightly catatonic right now as a result of assaulting my own body with drugs, so the last thing I want to sit through are dark images of what drug addiction does to a person.

Thanks a lot, Netflix. Now that I’m finished writing, I’m stuck watching my dog lick her paws until I muster the courage to look through my own DVD collection.

The Wall

He a raggedy, cornered, orphaned doll of deep and hollow eye sockets.
She a giant vagina with jiggly testicles mounted on muscular legs
fast on calloused feet,
mocks him and his sentiments.
the doll floats in nothingness; he can’t see, can’t hear, can’t feel
even if the body does.

The giant is sensuous and stomps the motionless body.

Bars in the window
I am crazy

The shape-shifter surrounds and suffocates
He once tried – nails dug into vertically infinite concrete.
Scab and blood the only proofs.

He’s awake. He’s terrified.
She is massive and the foot threatens

Tear down the wall

A cascade of ugly shit from her mouth.
He sees choking hands and bitten nipples
Ripping open a blouse, exposed breasts in shame.
Uniformed rape.

Physical punishment
Faceless body unquestioning into the abyss.
The crowd cheers as the skies fall on the heads of
Queers, jews, junkies, students
Beaten and stripped.

When eyes were still in the sockets
A blade sharply removed eyebrows
and skin,
and blood.

The scars didn’t matter for a rock star
He still got pussy. Even more, for being eccentric.
By now the scars were gone and with them
any vestige of humanity

They found him nearly lifeless
Television blasting.
Where’s the commander now?
Where are the uniform and the megaphone
and the followers and destroyers?

A shot of adrenaline.
A forced re-entry.
Humiliated and sub-human

She built the wall
And she blew it up.
With it went his mind.
Little children solemnly sort pieces from debris.

Pink Floyd: The Wall (film) was so fucking fantastic I had to try to capture the imagery. I apologize for compressing and diluting the work with my self-indulgent little challenge. I couldn’t not.