*ophelia The Madness Poem by Ted Sheridan

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___
Alas........
Here is where.....
Madmen reside within the realm of sanity......

©2007 Ted Sheridan