I'M Walking Backwards To Christmas

I’m walking backwards to Christmas, he sang, Across the Irish Sea, he added; In his head the wires disconnected to fuses Blowing and smoking through serotonin drought; Genius rubbed nerves with scouring pads, Scrubbing the cells with black paint and cactus juice; The deserts of chemical oblivion swept forever, Jostling triptizol clouds and white lightning, Bi-polar expresses careering off tracks, Boxcars of words exploding in half-scripted fragments, Filling the green-walled ward with deranged laughter. “Captain.” “Yes, Private?” “Some bad news and some good news.” “What is it?” “Well, the Indians have captured the fort, burned it to the ground, killed all the men, raped all the women and killed them too.” “And the good news?” “They spared your wife.” “Damn, never did like them Indians much.” The crystal sets erupt hysterically nationwide, Tears run, spilling down cheeks, bodies convulsing, As the currents make him convulse; And the pioneer of the alternative, crusader of the ludicrous insane, The straight-jacketed genius of the airwaves Continues to sing: I’m walking backwards to Christmas, he sings, Across the Irish Sea, he adds.