Pyschiatria

Don't bother looking it up

I know what it is. You'll discover
all the words of mania, the process
of neuroses, a slight dash of phrenia,
perhaps. Add a phobia and let it brew;

I'm sure I'll make a fine stew.

If you find me bouncing in the halls
there is no need to get a pad, I've seen
the writings on the wall, and some
of them are good, and others bad.

Then there are some who find me rather mad

but I would never find my madness sin;
it is a way of coping in an insane world,
and crazy's just a way of fitting in.


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Dancing

You were a new tune
played on an old victrola;
tinny, hard to understand,
(but I gave it a 75, it was easy to dance to).

You took my hand (and stepped on my feet)
leaving footprints on my soul
that followed me around; asking
"Where is the music? Where IS it?"

but I never found the song.

I listened to so many stations
spinning the dial manically;
DJ's touting miracle drugs
guaranteed to ease the pain

and they never did.

I tried to dance but never
learned the steps, looked into
eyes but never found the way,
burned with sweat but never
loved the deed, unsatisfied

I took my loneliness to bed

while the notes would dance around
my head. I heard them in the whispers
on the street, I searched for them
in everyone I'd meet. until my steps
would finally drum the beat of someone
walking down the wide expanse who

whistled in my ear familiar notes
that told a tale of understanding
pain, you smiled, and took my hand;

and then we danced again.

140

There are no secrets left in this world.

The naive tell it all,
whowhatwhenwherehow and with whom,
TMI in 140 characters or less.

Hooray for the age of (non)sense

Little birds Tweeting for crumbs,
mobile phone pics of each and
every twig, piece of string put
out as theory while the eggs fry alone.

Keep your sunny side up

while your bridges are built
on social sites, one virus
scan away from being rode over

by the mouse that roars.

Forgive me if I don't say
what I had for breakfast today.
I find it all (a)waste anyway;
you just end up red in the face,
forever flushed. I keep my secrets
in a delicate retrieval system...

It's called MY BRAIN.

4 1/2

I don't want to be stuck in the lower depths

blown warm by affront to my
sensibilites, or frozen out
by a chill from the north,
playing with depressions
that might kill the canary
in the coal mine island; black
soot in the blizzard like snow.

I don't ever want to be too high

jumping from one piece of fluff
to another, thinking I can fly;
one thump of thunder and I'm
falling

...............falling

.................................falling

down to Earth like over-weight hail,
smashed to bits by presumptuousness;
the way all the high and mighty
are eventually slapped back to normal size.

It's best for me to find my own equalibrium

here on cloud 4 1/2.




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Flypaper

Hi, Fly.

Sugar water on the table,
escapee from the local web
and I the one what sprung him;

Fly, I.

To know is to love.
Don't need a doo bee
to catch a buzz;

My Fly.

Not being a gullible guy,
there's not much I'll swallow,
spider, fly, and I
live in harmon-I;

I don't know why...


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Muscatel

Sour grapes.

I chew them all the day long,
bursting like cheap Muscatel
on my dry lips, staining my teeth
a royal purple, and isn't that a dainty
dish? Crunching like the bones of blackbirds

suspended on the wire

seeming immune to the crackles of static
that are my words across the telphone
lines. You never wanted change, preferring
being stationary to being mobile; so your
lifeline lies across your hallway desk,
awaiting the Imperial Summons.

I hear the tolling of the bells

wanting so badly to say "Bite me"

and I try, but your mail is already full.

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The Martyr

She bled all over the white carpet

gasping and moaning all the while;
but when I ran to help her up, her
hunched, pale body wouldn't budge,
her bloodless fingers wrapped around
a sponge and heavy, soapy bucket.

"Don't worry about me, I'll be alright."

The light is bad, the house too cold,
the house too hot, it's far too silent,
far too loud, and pink is blue, then blue
is pink, her garden growing so contrary;
I'd paint her colors as she pleased, but

"Oh, no no, don't worry about me."

washing dishes in ice cold water, trying
hard to be efficient, taking thirty minute
showers, creeping up so silent, 'til I hear
her mournful breathing, pregnant pauses,
heaving sighs, the Martyr with her broken
lance. I try to make her burdens light, but

"Oh, no no, I'll be alright."


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