I AM OPEN TO NOT HAVING A SOUL

I live amongst the bees. I am a spider. I am an insect. I am a caterpillar that will never see wings. I like blue skies but they annoy me sometimes. So does love. I wish love would stop annoying me. I will have to stop it, somehow, in a way that will be permanent. Maybe I will stop it from entering my soul. That would be the best course of action, if I had a soul. I am open to not having a soul. Many folk do not, why not me?

SYCAMORE GATES - JOURNAL ENTRY 6 - THE ANIMAL HUMAN

There is a tiny red antique 2-seater, just at the end of the corridor on the first floor of The National Gallery of Ireland. Most of the time there is a Jack. B Yeat's painting within 5 feet of one's soul, which is not a bad place to be. My soul takes pleasure in such an exchange. My Irish heart misses the days of Civil War, Bloodshed and a valid excuse to kill the Animal Human.

Last time I was there, I spent an hour on the ground floor, thirty minutes on the Mezzanine and five in the adjoining shop, where I purchased two over-priced but under-valued postcards from Jack. They cost me a grand total of 9 pounds, or about 14 euro.

I have decided once I get off the Plane, do the business and find myself a bed, that I shall consume some duck with fresh peas and a nice glass of 10 year-old Bushmills Malt.

Then I shall call to order a sort of Wannsee Conference in my brain, where I shall be the decision-maker, treasurer, secretary and all manner of things to myself, for myself, because of others.

One fact everyone should know is that there is always a way to succeed at murder, all murders, all killings, every good act man partakes in can be cleaned so well that its as if it never happened in the first place. One must study the News first, learn the past mistakes of politicians, never forgetting democracy and all it entails. I learnt my trade from Politicians and Church Leaders. They are the epitome of all things murderous. People look up to them, not at them. They fail to see the blood-stained hands, they forget that all such animals have sharp well looked-after teeth.

P.S
The woman across from me seems to have fallen asleep. One of her eyes remains a teeny bit open, possibly a trick she learned as a child when her uncles took turns. I hope for her sake that she never wakes up. I could give her the gift of death, I could set her free right now, if she would only ask me...politely.

JOURNAL ENTRY 5 - I MAY EVEN CRY

It is going to go exactly like this.

Firstly, I will do the Good Samaritan scenario at the Hospice Ward. You know; bring him some grapes, yes, seedless grapes, in order to look normalized, stable and friendly. Lean back, forward, say prayers, that sort of silly shenanigans. I usually look out a window before I instigate the procedure, so I see no reason to change that now. I began doing it about four years ago, whilst I was chopping off a mans hand in his own Kitchen. I found it both pleasing and humorous at the same time.

Then, following a brief second of melancholy reasoning, I will insert a tiny drop of liquid Morphium-Scopolamin straight down his throat; tiny drops, not a large amount, just enough to stop his heart beating. Morphium-Scopolamin achieves death as fast as any act, it is an amazing chemical that should be used far more often. Almost impossible to trace, especially if there is no suspicion of any malice.


I shall remain fully confident that the coroner will be a total workaholic with no reason to doubt this man simply faded away. Isn't it quite reasonable that this mans engine would seize?. If you were a Coroner, would you even bother checking for clues?
Exactly.

After he moves on, I shall continue to sit there awhile, even talking to him in a warm way, specially if there are witnesses. I may even cry. I will feel no fear of suspicion. I will feel no guilt. I will not even remember the reality of remorse. I will seem both gravely concerned and shocked at all times. I may even ask to see a priest if I think I can achieve the act of communicating with such a thing.

Then, at about 2pm, I will depart from the scene of the dream, where I shall spend a few hours at the National Gallery taking in the air. There, I shall review my list on a tiny red antique seat that is located on the first floor, right across the way from a Jack. B. Yeats Painting. I may add a name, I may even cross one off, who knows?

JOURNAL ENTRY 4 - HE WILL BE SADLY MISSED

The first person I am going to kill is an old friend of mine, Martin 'Monroe' Sullivan. Martin and I have been good pals since the last day of spring, 1965, when both of us started working in a Hotel Kitchen near Sneem.

Two summers later, as he staggered home from the Bar, he was knocked down just outside the village of Cullen, about twenty miles east of Killarney, on the Cork/Kerry border.

The driver of the vehicle, who happened to be his brother, came out without any physical damage. Martin, on the other hand, lost the ability to be aware of his own existence about 3 seconds after his brain hit a granite pillar.

Hours later, as he was being transfered by helicopter to Dublin's useless Trauma Ward, I was chopping a womans head off with a kitchen knife up in Newcastle. I didn't know at the time that someone so loving was taken from us like that. I'll never forget the journey back to Ireland. There was only one thing on my mind 'Where did I lose that fucking knife?'.

For thirty long years Martin has been laid up in a tiny ward of St Mathew's hospice, his chubby wife Melda fucking every half-drunk neighbor that will give her some attention. His brother long since at the bottom of some lake in Kenmare. I never liked his family, especially his wife Melda. She had the ability to scare Feral Cats with her presence. Maybe I'll kill her as well, just so Martin can tell all those in Hell what she did. She makes me angry. An uncomfortable rage possesses me when I picture her smiling. Yes, I will, I shall kill her too, or better still, give her severe brain damage so her family can forget about her.

There is nothing worse than being forgotten, far worse than any death, perhaps even more cruel than life. I will make it so she will vanish like a Genie, thats it. I can do things like that, only for my good friends, Martin being one of the closest. Always had time for me, even when he suspected me of hurting his sister. He was a loving individual that spoke the truth to those who did not appreciate it. He was also quite dangerous after a few gin and tonics, especially notable for the ability to actually take a guys eye out with the corner of a beer glass. He occasionally beat his mother as well, for making him feel unwanted, which, in my opinion, was fully deserved.

She was a replica of Melda, his wife, too much beast, not enough lady. Too many opinions, not enough experience. How people like that live so long is beyond my comprehension. It undeniably shows Mans inept nature to those beings that hurt it so much. If it were me, I would have electrocuted her while she was in the bath. Martin talked about it, but he ended up killing no one. Can there be any sadder reflection on a Mans life?

JOURNAL ENTRY NR. 3 - IN A DARK SHADOW MOOD

In a dark shadow mood crossing seas on a dream. The Irish woman sitting across from me wears her soul on a sleeve. She must have had a father just like mine. He'd beat you for loving him as a son might. He'd hit you for thinking 'come hug me for a while'. He'd never go easy and he never once smiled.

Plop.
Plop.
Plop.
Her back remains stiff as a scared Hen. Her rose-colored glasses steam like two pots of sweetcorn. Her expensive Manolo's unsuited to her intense rural demeanor.

She was powerless to stop whoever raped her, she blames herself, perhaps her mother as well, but nobody cares about her now, especially her family. They have much more interesting people they can lie to. She could have been the next Mother Theresa if the priest had left her alone. He took her in, gave her sin, made her feel awkward and silent within. Now, every time she touches human flesh, every time she creates any form of love, it makes her guts explode outwards towards her crackled lips, forcing horrid exchanges from many a disillusioned stranger. I like staring at her, it makes me feel at ease to make her feel uneasy.

She finally moves her neck, to face the Finnish businessman who is tapping on his G4 in order to locate the Apple of his eye. I hope he gets what is coming to him since he made capitalism his Jesus Christ.

I turn my head horizontally, almost vertically out of sync, in order to pull a post-it note from my back pocket. There are many human beings relying on me for life. There are seven names on the list, where is the list?

Have you ever wanted to kill your wife, or your sister, or for that matter your children? JOURNAL ENTRY NR. 2

My mother, who I never really had a decent conversation with, hung herself just above my Cot the Friday after Good Friday, which happened to be the day after my one week baptismal anniversary. It was and still is the only action I have ever understood from any member of my family.

It's been fifty six years since that terrible moment. Fifty six life-times later and I am still acutely conscious of all the dangers lurking inside of me. I have repeatedly been tarred and feathered by my leather wielding conscience, unable to live without creating death, evolving into an extremely unstable animal human, capable of almost any unspeakable act on even those closest to me.

Have you ever wanted to kill your wife, or your sister, or for that matter your children?. Did the thought ever cross your mind that rather than being crazy, you are in fact perfectly within your rights to hurt anyone you like?. There is no one among us good enough, bold enough, precious enough to be worthy of life. Indeed, if there was ever an organism capable of being justifiably alive then I sure hope I never have the misfortune of seeing it. I would surely kill such a thing in the most brutal of ways. I mean, far greater beings have exited this place for far lesser reasons. As if one needed a reason, they don't, I don't. I got all the evidence I need every time I turn on the news. Every time I relive the bruises of my youth. You fucking pigs, you insensitive rats - look what you have created.

THE TOWN LAND OF KILLARNEY AND THE VIPERS - JOURNAL ENTRY NR. 1

In a tiny church not far from the town-land of Killarney, they presented me with the label ' Michael Francis O' Rourke'. I recall looking down at the baptismal fountain, then staring up at the church ceiling, forgetting why God had insisted that I be certified under such an evil looking statue of The Mother. I stared at my own mother, who by that stage was so worn that I couldn't distinguish her eyes from her face. I got a feeling all was not right with her, that there was a huge gaping hole in her reasoning. That she, like so many others of her generation, had been given the finger by those who should have known better.

At that very moment the statue of our lady hissed like a startled viper, her tiny red tongue covered by a black mole, her neatly arranged teeth joined perfectly together like a French Jumeau. Her white eyes turning black as a badgers nose. I began weeping for my mother, then for the others, shuddering intensely in my white cotton blanket. I was only two weeks old, but already 'Sold' was stamped just under the serial number on my already defective Soul. Four hours after the exchange with Jesus, I was thrown into a tiny blue cot by my already drunk father. Left alone in a haze of insecurities, wondering intangible equations, mesmerized to the point of being patronized, stunned at the facts as they presented themselves before me. My life would never have any meaning until I crossed the hedgerows of my youth, entering a place I now call Sycamore Gates, somehow limping down the road to adulthood, into my fifty-sixth year, where despair and denial have become my staple diet of choice for breakfast, dinner and supper.


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