Saturday, 24 September 2011


You cannot document madness
until you yourself
have become mad,
but by then maybe it's
too late.

Imagine Nietzsche,
his brain out of breath.
Imagine Plath or Hemingway
on the bony knee of death.

Some people aren't mad,
but still there's a disconnect,
something clicked - or maybe it's
a form of genius.

See Hunter S. Thompson
or Cobain, a fine spattering
of blood and brain.

Shall we ride the madness train?
If you get on, there'll be no alighting:
you'll be frothing, fuming, rocking
and maybe, all the while, quietly writing.

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