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Autobiography of a Madman


It's hard for me to tell
If only I could believe
This was not all there is of life
It would be nicely done.

A liaison of a romantic sort
Bodies, at the last gasp, contorting
When we will play upon our harpoons
Such is the way of things
When angels, there, with painted wings
Singularly fail to understand my predicament
Such is the lamentable lack of vision and empathy
Surrounding meandering rivers and lives
That is the surprising nature of the world
Untold, unheard, unfurling all the time
Lest anyone stand out of 'lignment
With themselves, I dare not think
Sitting here, as I do, upon the brinkmanship
Of existence, but resistances
Are something best left to the end
When I'll begin again.

A Buddha's play thing
It's twelve O Clock
And all my blockades are mental
Perhaps I am too sentient
To be writing this
Morning I had a near mistress
Sitting on my lap
It made me happy for a while
But in the end it's not my stylus
That she wants, no, for I am
A broken recording of a forgotten place
Forgive me if I sound a little vague
There are plagiarisms in my mind
And vagabonds within the heart I do discount
So let us utter no more unaccountable nonsense
For this is all there is:
A perfect blissful ignorance...

...Poetry is a song
A symptom of a fractured conscious
It took beats and got broke
That's when it cried out-spoken
Thoughts that woke them from their dreams
They were so obscenely phrased
One of exceeding frailty
A paragon of his heart-ache
And so I stand here in this transcendental state
Awaiting to be rescued
By a soldier with a smile
Forgive my vilest dreams
Poesy is a disease
Uncouth, unkind and meaningwhile
He and she and it and they and I
Lie wicked, wickeder and wickedest
Beneath the sky.

Ch 1 English in the Library
Ch 2 Prisoner
Ch 3 What Can I
Ch 4 Orchard
Ch 5 Broken Brain
Ch 6 Cut-glass Universe
My Lion