violence begets marigolds

the streets of Paris are awash with treacle men detach their jaws women are boiling shrimp and children sell candles to the poor.

be outrageous
unpack your suitcase and make
your revolution here
take your dreams and
eat them on a scone
choke the police with sausages
stifle the rich with flowers
give handkerchiefs to the homeless
feed your offspring to the dogs
feed
your ancestors to the owls
admire

the insolence of rebellion

that trembles in the corners of the night.
leave your homes
leave your cars to fester in the road
leave your trees your almanacs your wives
the woods are alight the wind
shudders with pillows of sperm

sous les pavés les prunes

give
false limbs to the shadows, give
wine to the falling rain.

there are nipples under the stairs

lie down in the fields stand up
at the passing of the day.

our sleep will be more profound
by the light of burning churches
raise your head and feel
the colour of your arms
may
they tremble like a stone
the waves that engulf your bed will reach
from your fingers to the moon

only the short deserve the blind
let them
slide
onto the spikes around your womb

wear your kittens on your sleeve
the summer
will pelt our armbands with steam
the evening
divides like an amoeba
the sun
is wrapped in a blanket of nails
the tramway
is outlined in figures of shame

the caravans of evening meet
the obscenity of dawn
throw understanding to the crows. Tonight we dance on the rails.
a perfume of insurrection
floats among the pillars of the world
the people exchange
waistcoats of mashed potato
for
the bullets of desire

join hands.
the ceremony of wax unites
the hopeful and the shamed
those who shout the loudest hold
bright spanners between their knees

a fake bat
circles the Eiffel Tower

they have gold but we have ancient skies
cover your toenails in lard
and piss on their sacred effigies of rhyme

soap bubbles rise from our screams. The world
belongs to those who shine
your obsessions make their rifles sing

throw pigs at the evening shade
write poems with the anger of your veins
sleep beneath the eyelids of your brain

tomorrow will smell of the sea

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Mister Badger takes stock

I’m psychotic. This means that I have certain hard-to-shake delusional ideas about the world and that, if unmedicated, I rapidly descend into weird paranoid fantasies.

It also means that I’m probably more creative, innovative, and imaginative than most people.

the secret life of words

The cold woods the slate where the children meet blue from kissing roses hand into hand into man into fish we reach a strange understanding you were always carved in stone while I was a word in your ear. Nobody came when you called. I was collecting driftwood carved by the salt and the flame and the years spent gathering dust and stars on the edge of the world a place where the days forget. I will love you for as long as I fall.

Mister Badger considers rejection

Having explored in (somewhat excessive) detail what being psychotic implies on a phenomenal and interpersonal level, I suppose I’d better start thinking about the way in which my borderline characteristics impact and have impacted my life. I’d already looked at some of these when I thought my diagnosis was veering towards narcissism, but considering anticipated, perceived, or imagined triggers from a new viewpoint has helped me better to understand my feelings and reactions. The cap fits better, so to say.

Mister Badger defends neurodivergence

Delusional psychosis isn’t about being “out of touch with reality”. It’s more a matter of seeing multiple ‘realities’ and not being sure which ones everyone else thinks they’re inhabiting.

Mister Badger encounters Other Minds

Introduction

In my last post I stated what is, to all intents and purposes, a strongly fictionalist view both about language and about ontology. The theses are conjoined: to put things simply, if we allow that all worlds are equally unreal – that is, that they are fictions – then it follows that the denizens of these worlds have the status of fictional entities. This develops on my earlier work on ontology, in which I defended a nominalist point of view; the transition to full fictionalism came about when I gave further thought to what precisely it would mean for there to be some relation between ‘language’ and ‘the world’.

The Mad Hatter’s Tea-Party: A Study in the Philosophy of Psychosis

The following brings together a number of my recent concerns & speculations. It’s a blogpost, so I don’t develop the arguments I make, investigate the literature, or examine the numerous objections that my remarks could occasion. I feel confident that, were the occasion to arise, I could. Of course.