Madness

Feeling at odds with the world?
Ever thought of letters to capture the mood you’re in?
Are you eloquent in the expression of unspoken word?
Bright sparks in that dank inn?
The one you call your mind?
Does the beauty of your body send you into throes of ecstasy?
A dopamine rush perhaps?
You looking for perfection?
Music made by a deaf man.
Flowery words of love crawling across pages not yellowed by centuries?
Looking for a high in a high?
Reading between lines and under them,
Searching for improbable meanings?
Are you still full of wonder over the slamming of the door,
Even though they slam the door?
Just because “you think like a child”?
Do you feel morose and unhappy?
Ready to engage the unnatural?
Perhaps slash off an ear?
Or liaise with nubile young women?
Beautiful as the islands they were born on?
Ever had the urge to decorate a church with nudes?
Carefully carved and wonderfully made?
Blasphemous right?
Feeling at odds with the world?
Ever thought of writing to capture the mood you’re in?
Are you eloquent in the expression of unspoken word?
Bright sparks in that dank inn?
The one you call your mind?
Where the bottom of the bottle drips,
And you’re crippled by the mundaneness of growing up which so excites the world?
Do you think you’re becoming a maniac?
Obsessed with eccentricities that only you can see?
If so then yes!
You’re on the SS Looney,
Where everyone is a bedlamite,
VVG and PC and WS and KC,
Initials for those who’s insanity reached out to you across choppy seas and moody weather.
I know,
I know,
They’ll never understand why,
They hate to love you,
They love to hate you.
Disambiguation?
The ones you love will kill you.
Madness?
This is art!

© Sena Frost 2015

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Listening Room

The lonely notes of the harmonica fall softly,
Interspersed with the twinge of the flute,
Mournful in their slow dance.
The scratchy piano wails to the throb of the drum,
The hum drum of desire slowly mounting,
Steadily sure-footed up this mountain.
The hush,
Then the breathy tunes of the singer,
The conversation premeditated,
The sharp intake at the end of every line,
Who knows?
It could be the end of the line.
The melange of pain so sweet,
Joy bitter,
And love,
Fettered with shackles of hate.
I douse my soul,
Amphetamines,
Endorphins,
The lucid haze,
Of the living death.
Where reality is the dream,
And the dream is a plague,
Connected to my pinnae with a string of copper,
Conducting pulses of acoustic entertainment.
Welcome,
To my listening room.

© Sena Kodjokuma 2015