Best Madhouse Poems
it is was on my morning stroll
i first noticed that common
white house dress, pearl buttons
busy in her garden
sauntering on, a most common sight
on subsequent passings
my evaluations were she was
not of any particular beauty
yet, there was a numen
behind that simple picket fence
one that many times held me
in a strange fascination
her beauty was in a simplicity
that left my inductive mind
in a madhouse to understand
so, i began, to steal my moments
with her as an opportunity provided
lost in the study of some neighbor's oak
i became the ornithologist
i was to take on many rolls
no avenue was to be denied
later i was to realize
it was the grasp of that numen
as Odysseus sirens
i was born to succumb
this ship would not pass in the night
in the red sunset, a harbor found
Benedick is ready to surrender
and so my wish within did find a line
to be man enough to balance a motorcycle
and wear the dress of Emily
a metaphor for abandoning the leather vest
but if we must deal with the truth
give freedom to dreams
indeed i would forsake all the world
could bestow on me, wealth, honor
as with each line i dwell with her
to turn back all of time
and be the man that won the heart
of Emily Dickinson
OKC 5/22
6
I’ve always been attracted, really,
By the other side of the mirror,
To find the white rabbit,
from Alice in Wonderland,
Playing croquet with the queen,
Not knowing where the world is going,
To embrace Juliet and Miss Cunegund,
Seal fishing in Alaska,
I’ve always been attracted, really,
By the other side of the mirror,
Having tea at the madhouse,
to listen to the advice of the silkworm,
The poet lives in strawberry pies.
7
Who stole my Christmas present?
The toy box, the stuffed animal,
Comanche’s headdress,
The red fire truck,
I saw time fly by the window,
She’s not my little sister,
Nor the matchmaker,
Is it Lucille, playing piano ?
Who stole my Christmas present?
Davy Crockett’s panoply,
The pretty steam locomotive, stupid,
The jumping balloon and its dreams,
I saw time fly by the window,
The Perfectionist is Listening
the rich are committing suicide
and taking us with them
the prosthetic limbed bastards
Fort Darwin tottering on fewer stilts
once the masters of the universe
presently picking through garbage
looking for an Icarus to pilot
some way back among the clouds
their telepathic goon squads
armed with the hard on of God
squat in the darkness of doorways
lightning strikes all around
even their machines were clairvoyant
several thousand watts went up my leg
shorting out the only attention span I own
left me perforated but not lacy
wearing all my masks all the time
fragments of self are selves
in a bulemic deconstruction
where form and content
mud wrestle incessantly for attention
on the crazy train to 3 color hell
the protagonists the antagonists
fornicators masturbators liquidators
pariahs and unlicensed poets
preaching hellstone and brimfire
apparently the ancient gods still rule
in their madhouse heaven
petulant and stupid gods
thought their figures included all the angles
sword point conversions gun point perversions
now their carcasses are steppingstones
what quirk of an infinite being
makes this burning plague village
of a planet so alone and necessary
of course none of this is protection
it's psywar out there kids
better find where they hid your dossier
mesmerized of the world unite
you have nothing to lose
but your failed methods of addressing reality
said his twisting tongue
struggling for ratings like any media
the soul cannot erase it can only go sightless
a phantom trapped in melancholy
when we were built to dance
with the twinkling stars
he finally learned to undestroy memory
being an ascended master of non sequitur
carried aloft in the arms of Mother Goose
his metabolic hurricane of why
an inferno of intrigue and superstition
our embryo-headed UFO ruling class
have me inside their fence of skulls
an investment in diagram futures
the idiots
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
Now, Where Were We?
Today a caller so nice and sweet, screamed in my ear,
Everything was going so well, and she was such a dear.
A big black spider was sighted, crawling on her wall,
The sounds of distress were heard big and small.
It went on for quite a while, my ears and head are still ringing,
Then I hear the sounds of the spider, getting a massive beating.
Several thumps and stomps later and the remark, “He’s still alive!”
Again the commotion continues, this shows a woman with drive.
Oh My Goodness, it’s like a madhouse on the other end,
Where everyone is taking a dive and going around the bend.
Then finally scattered objects and noise become less,
To the sighs of relief, and the statement, “What a mess.”
Suddenly it all goes quiet, and I ask, “Are you alright?”
This is hard to take, because I have to see it without sight.
Some more motion on the other end, and I start to blush,
Where I hear the sounds of a burial at sea, by a flush.
Items now being picked up, and put in their place,
I’m hoping that she hasn’t forgotten me in her haste.
And now I hear she is back on the phone with me,
Finally composed, she said, “Now, where were we?”
Written by Michael Eastman, 8-30-2014
He was sitting alone in the corner
In a little cafe at the painting of Monet
And was talking to imaginary friend
About thinness opaqueness fear
Sensation of heat cold anger despair
Cruelty he claimed is the language of reality
Not the barren lame poetry with vulgar
Metaphors hiding behind empty words
Cruelty was the only honest way
To open the hidden heavy doors
Into suffering human soul and heart
And talk about things that matter
Through shamanic art of reaching
Deep into the guts of true teaching
And bringing light to the dark corners
That have never been lit before
Actors dancing in overpowering way
Manikins with terrifying theatrical faces
With empty eyes staring at the audience
And drilling through their souls
Objects of strange proportions
Surfacing in a dreamy scenery
Of unrecognizable ghostly world
Of the modern stage transformed
By the means of the theater of cruelty
It is the only way to be honest
To himself Artaud claimed
And believed
He was right
He sacrificed his life
To this idea
And died lonely forgotten
On the bare floor
Next to metal bed
That stood at the door
He tried to open so hard
In a madhouse
Where magic of theater
Truly belongs
Skin cancer and Ayn Rand
So another sunny day is sinking into the sea I sat in the sun
for a while but it got too hot I do not understand people who
sit for hours in the sun, hot and painful just to get a tan.
I get a tan in the summer this by riding mine
bike around for an hour or so, only lately with advancing years
I easily tires and having had skin cancer I’m careful.
In January,I collapsed, ambulance sirens and so on; I was dying,
too stupid to notice as death is banal. Elderliness is an affliction
that is depressing, the loss of power, when steps
in the hall are obstacles, negotiations of the will, this sounded
like Ayn Rand whose teaching is the antithesis of a just society,
it worth noticing the rich think she is a goddess their inhumanity
have a philosophical point. Ayn Rand died in a madhouse.
I have no political ambitions, but I do believe in quality for all people,
I regret to say it is only just for some people.
The emergency room
filled beyond capacity.
A madhouse of accidents
and wounds.
You say don't cry so soon
I say I will be glad
when all is done and
I wake to the morning sun.
If it be not quite noon
then the zoo of hell
brought about by the moon
still has time to gather gloom.
Then who knows how dastardly
a night still yet may loom
before the morning light
brings the breakfast call
of the hungry loon.
"THE DRUNKEN BEE DROWNS IN HONEY"
It was 5:37, the moment
I woke up.
the dead roses are pleasing
to the aesthetic senses
again.
my insanity is bandaged,
plastic surgery went well.
the darkness is comfort,
delusions of persecution
dance and my lungs become
reality.
the broken must earn their
way into depression.
as I earned mine,
time was a whore out of work.
she watched as I slit my
throat, she bathed in my
blood and cackled.
as I lost sleep, she slept
sound, as my paranoia ran
towards the madhouse, she
signed the papers in bloody
urine to have me committed.
through the slip into
darkness, the bee swam
through honey.
I shot holes in the butterfly
wings and cried.
I made love to the mirror
as I watched myself burn.
her consistency with no
thought is a shark mouth
approaching a hook.
it isn't the evil in a
woman's heartless and
soulless body but the extras
that fuel the evil itself.
the vanilla candle has no flame.
the house is heavy in
madness, a madness with
a love so dark, it's story
has no end.
magic persists without us,
no matter the effort to stop it.
hatred will fade,
the drunkenness of revenge
will sober and the free
parking on the Monopoly board
will cost you your integrity.
get slammed into a table
but fear the corner when you
fall.
you stole a month of my
insanity and made me sane.
as your monkeys eat your
fleas, as the bees drown,
as the pigs find another
route, as the story closes,
the unexpected gift forms.
it's time to pull the stinger
and watch you die.
all in good time,
all in my broken clock's
good time.
By: Chicano Eddie
8-10-2016
Full moon rises over haunted house
Things move there quiet as a mouse
At the front porch are some pumpkins
Lit as though there’s a soul within
Nothing will come and surely douse
Outside sits a large scarecrow louse
Beaming eyes like a great lighthouse
Bats fly inhaling all the sins
Full moon rises
A graveyard sits near the nuthouse
No skeleton bears shirt like blouse
Cat will scare you out of your skin
Beneath the ancient tree like limbs
Field they came from is a madhouse
Full moon rises
Russell Sivey
I am a pitbull.
Why am I here?
They call this a shelter,
But it is hell in here.
I came from a loving home,
And children who played with me.
Never once did I growl,
When they pulled my ears and hurt me.
They call this a shelter,
Dogs bark night and day.
We live in our own filth,
Hoping to be taken away.
My family saw a story,
About pitbulls who hurt someone.
But, I am a sweet dog,
Who never hurt anyone.
In this madhouse shelter,
There are mean dogs who bark and bite.
I wonder what people did to them,
To make them want to fight.
My family was nice,
My children all cried.
But, I was brought here,
Even though I tried.
I see people walk by,
I wag my tail all alone.
I have sweet eyes,
But no one will take me home.
I am a pitbull.
I cannot cry.
I was taken to the shelter.
Why must I die?
Desert Of Overcast Blues
I walked in a desert of overcast blues
sandy undertow wicked and laced with red rust.
Old , worn-out and sad are my feeble trekking shoes
yet onward with flowing tide travel I must.
Treading bastions of false hope and scary tales
heaped with desperate tales I did so want to hear.
Oceans of sweet soothing lies bigger than blue whales
and me unable to stop running from my fear.
Where scolding shadows cry out my deepest regrets
red dust pulling me down into a darkened pit.
There hellish madhouse laughs and wins all futile bets
cutting into my lost soul with every hard hit.
Longing for days, when mere boulders stood in my path.
Begging relief from night's cuts of demonic wrath.
Robert J. Lindley, 5-03-2016
Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line: 12 12 12 12 0 12 12 12 12 0 12 12 12 12 0 12 12
Total # Syllables: 168
Total # Lines: 18 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: N/A
Total # Words: 124
Sonnet, 12 on 12....
My home was like a madhouse
Sister and brother in law came to stay
Bringing with them 2 boxers and a terrier
Tilly* thought it was xmas day
She is an old lady but you wouldn't think so
She and Boris a terrier were racing here and there
Was like she had a rocket up her butt
She is 34 kg he a mere 10 an unlikely pair
Silence reigns again cos home they have gone
I vacuumed the floor and steamed them
Cos half of the garden mud appeared upon
All evidence of fun times and utter mayhem
Its great to have visitors i must agree
The chaos it causes adds to the fun
Too much to eat , to many cups of coffee
Next time hooray, it will be their home,
*Tilly is my 9 year old rescue Boxer who is vastly overweight.
Boris is a Westie x a year old .
Oh what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw truth tellers doxed, and their addresses listed
I saw images on my cellphone put on by the twisted
I saw a prophet wailing as he was dragged to the madhouse
I saw madmen gaining all the levers of power
I saw wolves out of jail while their victims cower
I saw fools arm in arm with those who would kill them
I saw indoctrination vultures above me turning
Know-it-alls told me what to think, but I wasn't learning
I saw a meteor of old glory barely burning
And it's a hard, it's a hard
It's a hard, it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall
And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard desperate fathers called domestic terrorists
I heard speech is violence and violence is speech
I heard the fury of a woman scorned
I heard a prediction of vengeance, a new weapon borned
I strained my ears in the eye of the hurricane
And it's a hard, it's a hard
It's a hard, it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall
And what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
And what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'll hike through the garden with high rising fountains
I'll go off into the forest, and up the mountains
I'll swim cross the ocean, and glide on the river
I'll raft the white water, before the oncoming slaughter
And it's a hard, it's a hard
It's a hard, it's a hard
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall...
Happy day after, our Cupid’s little arrow was thrust
To those with a new true love may it forever last
To those whom our little cupid cruelly passed bye
.Do not fret all you need is one big chocolate and candy blast
What is so great about a heart so fluttering you think you will die
Go out and treat yourself to all that is splendid in life
One never ever knows what's just around the bend
Who needs wanting to cut your heart out with a knife
Cupid at times can you to the madhouse send
So keep singing and dancing, and paint the town red
Be free as a bird and fly upwards alone yet fully content
And don’t worry if it is just for sex that you jumped into bed
Love brings huge grocery bills, noisy kids, landlords wanting rent
Who needs love, and those bloody moonbeams in your head
Who needs candlelight, when you're tired and your energy spent
Cupid’s arrow can at times hurt and even rip your soul apart
Yes so much better to give this love stuff a mighty good pass
Or you will find that suddenly you no longer own your heart .
Who defined
“certifiably insane”?
You see, it too closely
defines those who are
running this world.
The place where technology steals jobs;
Airplanes, crash more than they fly;
Politicians are elected,
based on the most…convincing…lies and bribes.
Where the archaic caste system, is making a comeback;
where diseases are created to win wars
and where medicines are created
to cause more sickness, then they cure.
A madhouse, where viruses are added to seeds,
which become our food.
Where no cure for cancer is ever found,
although nature gave us many.
There’s too much money to be made in…research;
to find too many cures will create less jobs.
Where surgeons sell unnecessary surgeries,
to enhance their lifestyle.
Where those without jobs or money,
are forced to buy insurance or pay fines,
yet politicians are exempt?
A psycho-drome where people disappear,
with no trace and human bodies are plasticized
for exhibition? Who are they, anyway?
Where genocide is an unpunished act,
if the initiator so chooses and
Where theatre-wars are created,
for the profit of world leaders.
Where coal companies freely murder families
and toxic pipelines trump, all human life.
Yes, who defined, “certifiably insane”?
That’s one hand, I’d like to shake…
the truly sane one.