2007 - Vol. 4, Issue 6

If you must be tortured
you ought to be talented.
Madness per se is not attractive —
pissing yourself, babbling,
screaming, afraid
of the window, the voices,
or drinking until you're
a wobbling, weeping embarrassment —
the wards are full of them,
they stink, they're scary,
and nobody goes there
except the bored nurses
or once in a while
some friend or relation
who says something like
"Hi Bob, how are you?"
too loudly and leaves quickly.

No, what we approve, what we admire,
and makes all the young bunnies
want to go crazy or get some disease
is when agony can dance the pentameter,
flay the sunflower, or play
the piano with a million fingers
and sing like a bird on a burning tree,
then dies so we don't have to
deal with the asshole, but
tut–tut about the pity
and applaud The Triumph
Of The Human Spirit
squeezed from its tube
by an angry fist.