Hullabaloo

Through these thickly glossed
and glazed over eyes
is a veneer that is all too adept
to judge sound from unsound,
to which the latter is usually musical,
I see here and there that the daft and dotty,
and the never-in-a-hurry-to-fall-in-line,
the moonstruck and split porcelain children
are all mad hatters without their hats.
Yet if, for a moment, we are considering insanity
and it is measured in medium, then would a loony bin,
in moderate terms of per capita, of course,
and still customary, be as a whole utterly sane?
This is just food for thought for the starving sick.

Bedlam in the Asylum

When you go to pieces each night, every morning
leaving me little chance for any hope of warning,
you crumble and decay, and blame it all on me,
and find that anxiety prevents your own mourning.

When the granules dissolve from your fingertips
and decomposition sets in on crushed lipstick,
you circle old streets with cracked concrete
until the dying sun leaves you in an eclipse.

When you go to pieces each night, every morning
leaving me little hope for any chance of warning,
you collapse and decay, and blame it all on me,
and find that disquiet prevents natural mourning.

When discord wraps your throat and tightens down,
when lies flood your mouth with a plan to drown,
when you lay in bed with the bedlam in your head,
I'll be waiting here for you to die in this town.

When I go to pieces every single, sodden night
leaving me the only chance for feeling delight,
when I tumble and stray, I find peace within me,
and the final moments before I black-out...I'm alright.

The Magnate Mandate

The unaccountable, the sheepish,
the chargeable and the doomed,
none which come
of the conscience-stricken,
can sleep ever-so soundly in the night
as that of the weight of a crown.
The wretch that does sleep,
is tempered and cut
for ever-so founding of a muse.
In lethargy and dispassion
there is passion.
Believe me when I say,
a king is all these things.

The Waltz of the Lush

We sand our skulls and put our tongues to the grindstone
and dance on graves in early hours, because
in the pit of our shallow husk
we know that every morning is one step closer
to the night when some fucking prick
will get hammered with his friends and dance on ours.
'Til then, I'll keep dancing.