Tuesday, August 18/Wednesday, August 19, 2009
DEPRESSION IS DEPRESSING
DEPRESSION IS DEPRESSING
By Philip Cairns
Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns
Copyright 2009 by Philip Cairns
Writing about depression is just too damned depressing.
I’d rather be painting on the beach, with my feet in the sand, at Big Sur,
Just like Elizabeth Taylor in “The Sandpiper”.
Or having sex with some gorgeous, well hung stud muffin twink.
Whip out your throbbing dick and let me go to town, baby.
It’s like being dragged, against your will, into Alice’s stinking rabbit hole
Only there’s no fun when you reach the bottom.
Blackness, bleakness, a sense of screeching red hopelessness.
In my dreams, I can fly around the room,
Feeling so alive and free.
Then I wake up thinking it’s for real
Before I come crashing down to hideous reality.
Take me to the French Riviera
To Nice and Cannes or Cap Ferrat.
Driving the winding roads up into the shimmering pink hills,
Oozing soothing sweat with the hot sun in my face.
Depression is like drowning in burning sewage.
I long to see Jackie Burroughs on the silver screen or live upon the stage.
No booze induced puking on the floor in my seedy room at the baths.
Weeping on a park bench when a love affair comes to an end.
Something sets you off and the charcoal-coloured curtains envelope you in disgust.
The demon sits on your chest and tries to crush you.
Better the opening night jitters and after-party elation.
Standing on the stage, full house, not knowing what play you are even in,
Let alone the lines that must spew out of your mouth.
Tears soak your clean T-shirt and empty the Kleenex box.
Once, when a play I wrote was a flop,
I stayed in bed for a week with the Black Dog shitting in my face.
Please let me watch a favourite flick, like “Vertigo” or “The Misfits”.
A good cry watching “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” can purge the soul
And make you feel so much better.
I want to grasp the wings of a giant eagle and soar through the heavens.
Have lengthy conversations with intelligent angels.
Ask important questions of the Goddess.
All about the meaning of life and why we are here.
Send space aliens to educate me about the Universe.
There is even a time, after death, when you can have anything and everything your little heart desires.
It puts things in perspective.
After all, what good is an Oscar if you have a house full of them?
Would money be meaningless if you had $80 billion dollars?
How many lovers can one contend with?
Help me to escape from the rabbit hole of hell.
Anti-depressants make you fat and lazy which depresses the shit out of me.
“Hello. How are you?”
“I’m depressed.”
“That’s nice. I have to go. I just remembered something.”
Click.
Yeah, I’ll deal with this on my own.
I had this psychiatrist in the Eighties.
I’d be telling him some trauma from the past.
I’d glance over at him and he’d be yawning.
My pain was his boredom.
At least his paycheque was good.
Dropping, falling, tumbling backwards into oblivion.
Down the foxhole into nothingness.
Being unable to swim to shore in the middle of the pitching sea.
Your arms and legs tied with invisible rope.
Seaweed choking your parched throat.
Unable to evacuate anything.
Even if I had a sex change, I’ll never look like Julianne Moore,
Or have the accolades of Meryl Streep.
Not in this reality, anyway.
It’s just me, alone.
Craving more sex.
Reaching out for a life-saving hand.
Trying to be happy with life the way it is.
Depression is just there, like the sun.
Like a dog turd on the sidewalk.
Like sniffing a wino’s bum hole in the dark.
Look up. Relax.
It’ll go away, eventually.
Rise up. Get some sun.
Take some St. John’s Wort.
Get up. Live. Smoke a joint.
Make some art.
Lift your head.
Fly away with me, my sweet imaginary lover,
Into the dawning of rapturous golden bliss.
I wish this depression were merely boring but it can crush you to death.
I’d rather be painting on the beach, with my feet in the sand, at Big Sur,
Just like Elizabeth Taylor in “The Sandpiper”.
Or having sex with some gorgeous, well hung stud muffin twink.
Whip out your throbbing dick and let me go to town, baby.
It’s like being dragged, against your will, into Alice’s stinking rabbit hole
Only there’s no fun when you reach the bottom.
Blackness, bleakness, a sense of screeching red hopelessness.
In my dreams, I can fly around the room,
Feeling so alive and free.
Then I wake up thinking it’s for real
Before I come crashing down to hideous reality.
Take me to the French Riviera
To Nice and Cannes or Cap Ferrat.
Driving the winding roads up into the shimmering pink hills,
Oozing soothing sweat with the hot sun in my face.
Depression is like drowning in burning sewage.
I long to see Jackie Burroughs on the silver screen or live upon the stage.
No booze induced puking on the floor in my seedy room at the baths.
Weeping on a park bench when a love affair comes to an end.
Something sets you off and the charcoal-coloured curtains envelope you in disgust.
The demon sits on your chest and tries to crush you.
Better the opening night jitters and after-party elation.
Standing on the stage, full house, not knowing what play you are even in,
Let alone the lines that must spew out of your mouth.
Tears soak your clean T-shirt and empty the Kleenex box.
Once, when a play I wrote was a flop,
I stayed in bed for a week with the Black Dog shitting in my face.
Please let me watch a favourite flick, like “Vertigo” or “The Misfits”.
A good cry watching “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” can purge the soul
And make you feel so much better.
I want to grasp the wings of a giant eagle and soar through the heavens.
Have lengthy conversations with intelligent angels.
Ask important questions of the Goddess.
All about the meaning of life and why we are here.
Send space aliens to educate me about the Universe.
There is even a time, after death, when you can have anything and everything your little heart desires.
It puts things in perspective.
After all, what good is an Oscar if you have a house full of them?
Would money be meaningless if you had $80 billion dollars?
How many lovers can one contend with?
Help me to escape from the rabbit hole of hell.
Anti-depressants make you fat and lazy which depresses the shit out of me.
“Hello. How are you?”
“I’m depressed.”
“That’s nice. I have to go. I just remembered something.”
Click.
Yeah, I’ll deal with this on my own.
I had this psychiatrist in the Eighties.
I’d be telling him some trauma from the past.
I’d glance over at him and he’d be yawning.
My pain was his boredom.
At least his paycheque was good.
Dropping, falling, tumbling backwards into oblivion.
Down the foxhole into nothingness.
Being unable to swim to shore in the middle of the pitching sea.
Your arms and legs tied with invisible rope.
Seaweed choking your parched throat.
Unable to evacuate anything.
Even if I had a sex change, I’ll never look like Julianne Moore,
Or have the accolades of Meryl Streep.
Not in this reality, anyway.
It’s just me, alone.
Craving more sex.
Reaching out for a life-saving hand.
Trying to be happy with life the way it is.
Depression is just there, like the sun.
Like a dog turd on the sidewalk.
Like sniffing a wino’s bum hole in the dark.
Look up. Relax.
It’ll go away, eventually.
Rise up. Get some sun.
Take some St. John’s Wort.
Get up. Live. Smoke a joint.
Make some art.
Lift your head.
Fly away with me, my sweet imaginary lover,
Into the dawning of rapturous golden bliss.
I wish this depression were merely boring but it can crush you to death.
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