So Fun to be Mad

Ooooo…it’s so fun to be mad.
It’s so very very fun to be mad.
You know you’d have to be mad to
Believe in love.
You know you’d have to be mad to
Believe in goodness.
And oh! You know you’d have to be mad
To think your life is worth something bigger than just itself; your heart, I beseech you: is it of a higher dimension than all that we see, touch, feel?! — oh, you mad, mad, sick, beautiful human being.

But, I tell you, in good faith:
These so-called maniacs with their big
Guns
And their bombs
And long-lived tempers —
Know nothing of madness, my dearest!
They are nothing more than the puppets of humanity;
And in no way, form or shape of knowledge of any kind understand anything close-touching to the mere basics of insanity—; these rational people—oh God, how I do ever so deeply feel my condolences for them.

But ohhh…God; the madness! Gah!
But ohhh…God; the disease! My head!—
It is dying.
How crazy it is to believe
Miraculously—ignorantly—and blindly—
On the basis of love and friendship;
On the ideals of peace and purity;
That the human race is a good, meaningful thing.
Oh! How beautiful and glorious is that mad, mad man who loves to lie to himself.
Again, I’m going to say it again —
It’s so fun to be mad.
It’s oh so very very fun to be mad.
My heart!
It beats my mind into slavery. It bows my brain before the pulpit.
Oh please tell me this could mean I too am so very beautifully and heart wrenchingly stupid.

The Nightmarescape Box

It all happened in my bedroom. I was in a semi-conscious state of slumber. I may have been dreaming, but it didn’t feel like I was dreaming. As for my room — I could never decide if I should be trying to hide in the room or if I should be trying to escape from the room. Even if I decided to attempt escape, there were no exits. The door was bolted shut. The only hope of leaving the confided area was a solitary, unblinded window that stood almost intrusively across from my bed. The room was dark, but I could see what was around me because I could visualize it in my head. My head! So many stories were going through my head. I saw myself running. I saw myself hiding. I saw myself naked.

But I could never run fast enough or hide well enough. I always knew someone (or something!) was close behind me, and that this person or thing had not lost track of me nor would they ever lose track of me. They would always be right behind me. Chasing me. Trying to hurt me. “Oh my God!”

I gasp. Frantically, I scan my surroundings for a better direction. But I’m wasting too much time! I stop trying to think and just start running again. It doesn’t matter where I end up just so long as I can escape my chaser. But no matter where I run, I realize I’ve run through that place before, and I’m still in the my chaser’s territory. Then, things start happening. Weird things. People I know begin randomly appearing as if they belong in the place from where they’ve emerged. But, none of them are afraid of what is chasing me. None of them are naked like me. Only I’m naked. Only I’m afraid. Only I am running. “Why am I being chased?! Why can’t I have clothes?” I ask myself. “It doesn’t matter,” my brain replies, “if you don’t run, you’ll be caught and get hurt, so just run.” I run.

The weather and time of day were the next things to begin changing. At first, it’s daytime and cloudy — the season looks like a fall day after all the leaves have dropped and the grass is painted brown. Then, nighttime came and went away almost simultaneously, but I knew it had been night. Dawn was breaking and snow had appeared when the collapsing buildings and the rotting bodies started showing up where bodies have never been. Bloody bodies. Frozen bodies. Weird ritualized bodies in coffins and on crosses and posed in disturbing stances, like they’re supposed to be there. I begin to realize I’ve gotten myself trapped in an enclosed area. There’s no escape. I keep running and running. The area gets smaller and smaller. I start tripping over bodies sticking out of the snow and stumble to maintain my previous pace. Then I can’t take it anymore. I let out terrible, horrible moans! And…fall. And I give up. And with giving up,

I kill myself.

Soul Stare

When I look into your eyes I see
My own eyes staring back at me
And I wonder in bewilderment
How very spiritual and singular
The opportunity must be
To stare into a soul
You understand rather than it
Being
A total and complete
Mystery.

On Daemons and Angels

*photo by Morgan Bradham, 2016.

Lo lust the keeper of spites so high,
But death a foot gate by which I reach the other side.
Lo time and time again,
By every seconds’ spurt the continence of all days.
Lo thou timing of perfection determined by angels not,
But rather the correspondence of such and their god.