ON MY ALLEGED MADNESS

 

I stand aloof, august, austere

I silence suns with bluest sphere

These eyes that singe and flare and glare

And never, ever, shed a tear

 

My blood is royal, cold and blue

The world at large I do eschew

The “friends” I’ve known have not a clue

Why I stew a witch’s brew

 

I hate you, hate you, yes I do

The way my mind is so askew

The world’s a gawking, catty crew

Listen to the lies they spew

 

They whisper in the dark of night

Guffaw and giggle in broad daylight

“He’s crazy, he suffers, see his plight”

The wife of Lot’s progenic blight

 

In cafes, talk shows — everywhere

But especially in the sophist’s lair

The moral mice, amused, they care

For good copy, cash to spare

 

And so they say some wayward gene

Made me mad, distraught with spleen

My ideas they need not glean

Neuronal quirks of blood unclean

 

With lots of psychiatric spite

And technocratic talk quite trite

They claim their drugs will set things right

In tactless tracts of thinking light

 

But I can tell you such a tale

Of horror and an infant’s wail

Of how the World made me assail

And rave and rant and hit like hail

 

So come survey this paper trail

Of poems, polemics, that pierce the veil

Let your mind set-out and sail

And you’ll be capsized in a gale

 

Copyright, David Gottfried, 1997

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