Comments about Ted Sheridan
*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 ...
A Simple Twist Of Lemons
Like a blight of black flies
darkness had consumed my world.
A thousand mouths chewed my flesh
as they buzzed my every thought
with the pleasures
of a loaded Thirty-eight
and a liter of Imported Gin.
A permanent release from pain
was so simple,