For Jim Schembri and Lawrence Money. It was often said of Saddam Hussein by those in favour of his dethronement that when he really wanted to be gory he literally tore his enemies to shreds by throwing them into a huge grinder. And our dictator was clearly insane. He ground the notion of atonement with hands hardened by the crank. But turning men into mince? The story was exposed as atrocity propaganda, and didn't they then shake their heads, the journos who could be a lot kinder to this here former criminal of little rank long defaced by their lack of candour concerning certain assaults by stealth, long rendered by all the social workers, nurses and cops who slavishly follow our messianic masters of mental health, unduly rounding up unhappy lurkers outside hallowed cathedrals, so hollow.
For Jim Schembri and Lawrence Money I bet it was more brutal for thinking her boy lost to schizophrenia, my poor mother’s death. Being on opposite sides in her final hours, cruelly separated by the psychiatric shibboleth that has long branded as deeply psychotic what reason defends with the utmost rigour (my belief that you used a major newspaper to secretly ridicule the schizophrenic nigger), and by my inexplicable, unspeakable habit of disappearing in the Devil’s triangle of bliss, I abandoned her to the days before I became in love EVERYTHING and nothing but a pissoir for your piss, and with her fearing her meeting with Jehovah, to the thought that she alone fucked me over.
For Jim Schembri and Paul Harris. Flaring up and fading like a spliff being smoked by the Almighty, it has performed a solar cycle, the sun, since two broadcasters viciously ridiculed my madness on air without saying the name “Michael”, and eleven years have passed since I was first deemed paranoid in relation to the cowardly attack by a shrink trained to typecast every angry schizophrenic male as “just another violent menace so deeply removed from reality he can’t be re-educated in jail”, and here I am, still being drugged because my ire is deemed sick, still hoping you’ll mercifully employ your vast cinematic knowledge and not only advance the fine arts by defending what’s individualistic in many a madman, the true rebel the psychiatrist seeks to diminish, but give the story of the cinéastes - who were given the easiest of parts as witnesses to evil and shrugged - the sheen of a restorative finish.