The wind howls across the spine of shale and abraded rock ridgelines where Sentinels stand tall in the twilight, Gods watching the story of the desert night unfold.
With dust of revenge, nabbed Light up the night The windows will ignite the world Because the poets will come back
This is neither fact, nor expert advice: I am an artist, a poet, and all that may be in-between. This is neither fact, nor expert advice: Specialisms are making nonsense of sense.
Do you remember the first time you were told you were Broken, by a man with a clipboard and argyle tie?
. . .And again: how it feels to be afterthought, embodied scribble in the Margin, and again the void of logistics. It just is.
I need to be loved, As a child, Who will never be left, I need to be loved as a woman, There's an empty hole, In my heart that needs to be filled
Sighted through your pinhole spectacles: the mystery of consciousness; the timid eccentricity of suffering.
Instead of calling me "mentally ill" Call me beautiful Instead of mentally ill call me capable, meaningful and real Call me mentally ill if you must but call me responsible
A voice echoes in my mind, I need to rehabilitate mankind, I need to contain the schizophrenic, with drugs powerful and eugenic
Didn't know I was in trouble, When I fell into, Your chemical embrace, But now I can see, When is all said and done, You’re a chemical disgrace
Open up your jaw, In such and such. A serpentine fashion. Blue pill awaits. Your trembling mouth.