*ophelia The Madness

Here is where.....
Madmen write verse for their amputated lovers
with blue fountain pens and quills of clotted ink
Scribbling morbid memories yellow with old malaria
running like diseased rats through cellar thoughts
They cut themselves to see if their subjects will bleed
for their extremities are filled with a royal great pain
Morphine pumps hang from a weathered weather vain
spinning in the wind like some Blowhard's narcotic sonnet
Critics wither in their own flatulent and fowl wind
inhaling the breath of Artisans
Here is where..... language is a lost vagrant
Here is where..... everything and nothing rhymes
Here is where.....
Madmen dissect the bloated toad Shakespeare
inching closer to his truth with every stroke of genius
Verse is stolen from the cesspool of moronic poems
and published on whiskey soaked bar napkins
One in a million will find a star on which to ride
while all others will sink below the bog of verbosity
Disappearing into the darkness of obscurity
left to rot with extrapolated numbers of lifeless limbs
Here is where.....
Madmen guzzle pint by bloody pint of premium Ale
yet to render only another quart of stinking bloody piss
Where cockroach squatters count the missing legs
on the stools where hookers and whores sit eating prose
And Syphilis has been spoon feeding poor Yorick's scribe
a double dose of gambles and song to make a table roar
Horatio counts his money into a Barmaid's cum filled hand
hoping to yet land her to her lady chambers if he can___
Here is where.....
Madmen reside within the realm of sanity......

©2007 Ted Sheridan

by Ted Sheridan

Comments (12)

such a good poem ever! thks dude!
I like Barry Middleton's comment below. There is a lot to this poem, and its meaning will likely change the more one reads it. I felt that perhaps she mean one shouldn't take things like the month of April in isolation. April is worth nothing as a month if it isn't part of the cycle of life and death, growth and decay. The last couple of lines - It is not enough that yearly...April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers - could be suggesting that if one only looks at the flowers, i.e. the SURFACE of what April represents, then one is missing its larger and deeper purpose as part of something greater.
I like this. She is looking under the buds and seeing something real but dark. She isn't in the mood to rhapsodize about tripping gaily through fields of wildflowers whilst birds sing merry tunes. She sees the flip side and it is there and she challenges it. Faith, or any other life philosophy, would be shallow if it did not recognize death, destruction, decay and deal with them.
She says...It is apparent there is no death. All the more reason to enjoy spring with its fresh flowers and fragrant air.
It is a month of fresh flowers and nice weather. But sadly you cant see it. Nice write though.
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