Bizarro

From my home of blood and womb,
Did I get off on the wrong world?
Did I miss my port?
This was meant to be a utopia,
But its paradise is skin-deep and unhinged,
This isn’t the Earth I was taught of,
Something is awry,
Only a bizarre world I see,
Topsy-turvy and deceitful,

It’s built overmuch on vice,
Kindness seems to be a supernatural feat here,
Tyrants get ahead by virtue of cruelty,
Pollution seems to be a form of currency,
I was taught of a pure and decent world,
But this land ahead of me,
It can only be madness,
Was I lied to?
Or are these evils to be aspired to?

Weirdo

You wield that word like a sabre,
As if to preclude my words and humanity,
To write me out,
And yes it is true,
I don’t exactly fit any puzzle,
Always out of step in conversations,
Odd socks and baggy shirts,
Socially awkward in the extreme,
But what of it?
A tiger can’t change his stripes,

This moniker you have bestowed upon me,
Freak,
Oddity,
Weirdo,
Loser,
It is a badge of honour,
I am proud of the war I waged to earn it,
I am strange,
And I’ll die on that hill,
With a weird grin on my face.

Bassline

Do you feel that bass?
That tone in the atmosphere,
A low hum in sequence,
Pounding like artillery,
You begin to sway at the sound,
Intoxicating as it is,
It’s a legal high,
A sonic assault upon your composure,
A hysteria of the limbs,
It threatens to shatter your shell,
Make you move against your judgement,

It’s only a matter of time,
The beat continues unabated,
You’ll dance to this bassline,
With a grin that’d make the joker blush.

The Squiggles

I find my minds eye is clouded,
Marred by ocular madness,
By the squiggles,
Shapes appearing like a vinyl,
Little lines dancing about as couplets,
A disco in my vision,
A riot before me,
No colours,
Just monochrome,
They silently play tag with my focus,
Frolicking away before I can make them out,

I seem to have a million friends in my eyes,
Or is it my imagination?
Degeneration?
Insanity finally seizing control?

Good Sleep

Sometimes sleep can be like visiting a menagerie,
A mad array of mental toys,
Dancing and cajoling and fighting,
I close my eyes,
Logic takes the exit door,
And the toybox opens,
An entire universe of prisms and colours emerge,
Faces and pyramids and music,
Skeletons dancing against my backlit skull,
All things blended into storylines that make no sense,
It feels good,
Unconsciousness is my minds best therapy,
The crazier the dreams,
The better the rest.

Monster Of Art

When you imagine an artist,
You do not see me,
You see a noble practitioner of the word,
Your Tolkiens and Pratchetts,
Not me,
Not this freak with a pen,

I’m no artist,
I’m a monster of art,
My process is more of a hunt,
Deranged savagery in each stroke,
Less the orchestration of an artistic vision,
And more the dismemberment of prose,

The words I scribble are the meat,
The meanings behind them are a bitter aftertaste,
A happy accident,
Rending phrase from stanza,
Mutilating rather than composing,
Poetry coming from a state of psychosis,

I’ve read the greats,
My fangs were cut on their work,
This creature is a deviation from their ways,
I write because I must,
Perhaps one day,
I’ll write this monster a happy ending.

Fist Of Man

There is tell of a fallen angel,
Feathers replaced with horns,
Some epitome of spite,
And of this we are taught to fear,
Lauded as some ultimate enemy,
But I say different,

The devil is an amateur,
Way out of his infernal depth,
Ultimate evil sits in coffee shops and sips lattes,
A creature as studious as it is destructive,
Whose ingenuity has moulded countless systems of abuse,
It chokes the land not in lies but toxic waste,

The devil should just retire,
Last I checked we wore serpent skins,
Extinction is just in a days work,
Even Lucifer ought fear the mailed fist of man,
Both in location and scale of evil,
Humanity is punching down.

Crowmother

I heard tell of a witch,
A maiden in this harvest season,
A lady in an obsidian regalia,
Where she walks the flock congregates,
A winged host of subjects,
Upon her word do they fly,
She walks paths lost to man,
She is the mother of ravens,
She is never alone,
She is nature,
She is death,
She carries the murder in her soul,

The Morrigan

Top Hat

I am not a glamourous man,
Not a Prince Charming,
More of a Grendel or Hyde,
Something akin to a blobfish in a shirt,
A weirdo,
An eccentric enemy of the state,

But when I place that crown upon my head,
That mad hatter headpiece,
Victorian fashion supreme,
I don’t care anymore,
I know that I’m finally me,
I’ll be able to grin,

With it comes the face paint,
A clown taking shape under its rim,
Madness coalescing with joy,
With this ensemble I can recover from normality,
But I fear it’d all be for naught,
If not for my top hat.

Anhedonia

They tell me that I’m alright,
And I may well be,
But a cruel occasion has reared its head,
Joy seems to be held behind a veil,
I simply don’t feel it,
I’m not sad either,
Just hollow,

Pleasure is a memory,
One that feels like an echo,
One that I’m unsure really happened,
I do smile ear to ear,
But it’s just sketched on,
I have a painted smile,
From the palette of social expectation,

Sensations turned down like a volume control,
Hobbies become trials,
Food and drink taste like static,
Humans become boogeymen,
It’s a curious phenomenon,
Perhaps of a mind cracking,
Or a man broken by the world.