'Tis I, the better man by far,
to put my finger in the cookie jar.
My only life, I chose to risk it
for a cookie or a biscuit,
as a madwoman in the house
places traps best meant for mouse.
A lesser man might linger
on a missing thumb or finger,
but a man like me (a macho brute)
celebrates a cookie, down the chute.
Born into a band of heavenly bliss
he wrote about territorial piss
One song so deep it dripped from ceilings
liked to eat fish, coz they have no feelings?
Married a madwoman her name was (Love)?
drug addict too, no angel from above
The friends in his head made him so happy
lithium he took was oddly crappy
A screaming voice of boiling hot gravel,
didn’t take long for life to unravel
Swore blindly that he never had a gun
some lyric, considering what he done
Came as he was, doused in mud, steeped in bleach,
Jesus-like guy, just one that couldn’t preach!
Erin Healy is her name
Congresswoman is her game
She tweets 'bout what's 'extreme'
You can almost hear her scream:
Kids who have a married mom and dad
She deems 'dangerous and un-American,' all bad
How did this madwoman get elected?
Her insane tweet should be rejected!
I am a psychopath
a derange
a fruitcake
she looked at me as if I am looney tunes, a
nutter, madwoman, maniac, nutcase, nut.
I stuck out my tongue, causing her to flee
the man in the elevator asked me
where would she go?
We three have been stuck in here for hours
Do you remember me
Walking under the rain and sun
To prove my love,
Fetching your water,
When friends and others said
"I was as a madwoman?"
Looking for you in every corner,
Putting food in a bucket,
Yet, you look in my face
And said, "Love is cripple!"
I didn't understand your tricky words,
Till you modest me in tears.
I understood you are not rich:
We put heads together to get things right,
Cherish whatsoever you have:
Your tears always puzzle me in sadness,
Your sad words critique my heart in agony:
Suddenly, my pay is tears?!
Now, I know love is cripple;
As you romance her in your arm,
Love her always,
For she is, beautiful like Queen Vashti:
I thought we were going to build a Museum of love,
I thought we were going to be like Romeo and Juliet,
Oh!, pain is my best offer?!
Jesus did his best, yet he was betrayed;
If love is cripple,
Let me go and find someone
Who will straighten my heart:
Love me for who I am, my impressions, and throw away tears.
I appreciate the tears and affliction!!!
She opens the DSM-5 to page 666,
Know Thyself,
who among us is not a Beast somehow,
she's enthralled by Imperfection,
It explains the scars on her heart,
if she believed in Perfection
then she would need to accept her own nature
unequivocally,
she would have to love every part of herself,
poetry is her therapy
building puzzles her bliss
solving puzzles her passion,
she is a madwoman in the 3rd degree,
a sensational spaz
believes that she is a heroine among the herd,
starlet atop a soapbox
cavalier with her cross of crass sass,
she cares too much to be free...
searching in the trauma of souls
for her own ghost
lovestruck by the Devil's lightning
Godsmacked by the grind
listening for God to apologize,
she's exhausted by cynicism
brilliant yet bitter,
a cutthroat competitor,
frozen beauty in a flame,
she expects Life to buck her every day
a jaded girl looking for the grim,
on stormy days she sings to the static
perhaps she's waiting for the Apocalypse -
J.A.B. 2020
focus of a madwo/man
just how many psychotics
have we had to endure
passing through our lives
since the lies began being
told? how many madwo/men
quoting “scripture” as if it
validated their acts, as if their
lives had been determined, as
if “fate” had driven them
in the direction of something
total, something that would
eventually ring true, in light
of all that had been
“in the way of ‘the lord’?”
rather be with the “adulterers”
than in the focus of a madwo/man,
rather be dead set in a
murderer’s sights, than to be
“saved” by s/he who assures that
“they walk without sin”
(whatever the **** “sin” is),
rather be in the darkest pit below
amidst those condemned by all
the self-righteous, than to be
forced against one’s will to
succumb to the hypnosis,
rather be in doubt for the rest of
these days, than to be
certain, with a megalomaniac
holding all their reasons to live
in a book which they feel gives
them permission to.
***(The man who is coming)
A dissonant clamor of colorful voices
equal pebbles, days equal
like some rust crumble out of the eyes.
It is late to change myself and
I am the same again – with the essence
of an oak and a rose.
Dissolved in the heavens and with immovable shape of a heart.
A movement of light, before the Angel comes by your house.
On the island a hand with a cresset lit weighs.
/o, Nietzsche – a symbol of free will,
that
your road has cut off/,
and how much does the Hawaii weigh and the frames of the madwoman
a hand – an endless feast of deep tints
(why hasn’t Van Gogh been born yet?)
On that island I’d like the feast to be...
The man who is coming is whistling
lightly ...
He coaxed me
out of my mind,
leaving songs as treats
knowing I couldn’t resist
dashing out and gobbling
each chorus and verse
the delicacies
of my own precious,
scrabbling back
as musical notes
dribbled my chin
to leave a trail
he tracked until
I was cornered,
holding out his hand
to take mine
and forcing it
across a braille of skin
sheltered for a lifetime
light crept
to pry its fingers below the lips
of eyelids,
from the ridges of history
I was illuminated
in his epidermal fresco
—-
A blind madwoman
chose to see again
I just opened my eyes
No,
not I,
I see clearly through
the rotten wedding veil,
clogged by cake turning stale,
framed by arachnid pageboys;
I see cracks on pale pink lacquer,
on the mannequin face below,
eyes mad and staring, aglow,
the sick dead holes of eyeless toys.
No,
not I,
my dear,
I see the madwoman in the attic,
frozen in her rocking chair,
cobwebs floating in her hair,
gibbering to her inner void;
I see the child she used to be,
alone beneath opiate skies,
pulling wings off butterflies,
things of beauty she destroyed.
No,
sorry,
no trace of me at all,
no reflection cast of me,
I am not real, don’t you see?
but, of course, that doesn’t do;
I watch the self-delusions form,
your mechanisms justify,
projecting blame on passers by,
when all there really is,
is
you.
The thing about veneer is this:
It blinds to the truth,
Hides the real heart from sight
Whilst shining like topaz and gold.
The coating on a rotten tooth,
The glister on decaying wood,
The glaze on calorific cakes,
The healthy gleam in contact lens eyes.
The rosy sheen on those about to die of fever,
The cosmetic touch on week-old corpses,
The gloss of laughing lips superimposed on twisted rage,
The glow of fires on streams and rivers.
The thing about veneer is this:
It makes the real seem unreal,
Or the unreal seem real - whatever;
The sick seem well,
The evil seem good,
The mad seem sane
The abnormal seem, well, normal.
And the intrigue lies within
The way it is brushed on like a second skin,
So to reflect our pretend personas
To those who look upon us.
Whilst they do the same
To us who look upon them.
We all hide the madwoman in the attic,
But the question is:
Who has the maddest woman to hide?
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