The maddest
of the maddest
surround us
with
books and pens
not sharp
bloody knives
like
cutting
poetry
sliced
poems
and wicked
prose
stacked up high
against the wall of
metaphorical delights
alphabetically right
morally tight
you might ask
when we smell
a rose
with our weary nose
it is in fact a rose
because we think it
smells like one?
instead, we
cast off the dusty covers
and fluff our hairdo’s
wondering out loud
is poetry written by madmen?
sure!
they are resting
on the edge of oblivion
ready to slip off
falling to their death
on the rocks and sand below!
I say it keeps good hearted men sane
as he has the outright gall to stroke his werewolf mane!
tied to heartfelt strings of his
slippery
human brain
full of
syntax
sweet grammar
color
and
cues
we the people
of the quick mind’s eye
lead with uncovered
hues of
daintiness
shouting
oh, farewell!
to
the senses
hello to
rhyme and reason!
breaking down culture
and tall fences!
give up words
you thought
were so precious
mister
they
were never yours
to begin with
keep them gathered
up in your trembling arms
like the heathens
in a foreign tongue
who keep slipping heartedly
through your rusted
prison
bars
evermore
turning silent
as the letters
numbers
and crooked
vowels
walk where they will
under your cities lit
lanterns in their dark
cobble stoned streets
wandering around
aimlessly
when we
are gone
so that
all that remains
is a single book
a folded wine stained page
underlined phrase
it be I
I was the one
yes, you were looking
for me
the hidden one
this madman
someone’s son
answering to none
for no other reason
than because he can
who because of
the bane of poetry
stays sane
I see who you are
but you haven’t seen
me
driving my fancy car
hitting every bar
sipping tea
so regretfully
but
you haven’t heard
me loud and clear
between the pages
haven’t you?
fear not
there is more
or less
a given thing
around the corner
looking like a misfit
behaving like a jester
eating like a king
counting all his money
finally realizing he must
at all costs
let all his mistaken
beliefs go
because everything he
learned about how the
world worked was
totally wrong
he will
before long
become truly
insane
desolated
and
resolutely
tame
casting off
those same
dark nasty
thoughts
clinging
and
feign
so you keep asking me
is poetry written by madmen?
I cannot say
until my mind is right
that I will persist
I will have to get back to you
someday
yes
someday…
when I become
more
and more
and more
prolific
