the IQ test reads
MENTAL DEFICIENCY – they bring mum in and she exhibits
apoplexy, as if the twenty
years of indexical ‘I’ aren’t brought to bear on the number thirty-seven edged
under her blood-red nose – the tissues they give her are the cheapest kind and
I reckon that’s obscene.
as if on the page the
last N puts me out of school I’m not halfway to in search of lost time’s end, I
have’t written
I BELONG TO A
DIFFERENT PLANET
on my celing, or before
I throw that lady into her mantelshelf, into the pictures of her pussy sons I
don’t sketch a seascape in bed which is framed and put on a sideboard in the
corridor perforated with my first holes –
or after my mates have
gone I don’t bleed from my wrists because I need to
for how the world is and
for why I was born – but if they’re going to reduce intellect to a bunch of
percentile scores I’m going to reduce their scores
to mud, I’m going to
piss on the canteen walls, grab the arse of the nurse who looks like Lily and
wake, wrapped like a precious gift, in padding.
the doctor comes in
and says BORDERLINE PERSONALITY DISORDER but I know the truth: I’m
undiagnosable.
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