I'm plugged into Music with the lifeline
of a pair of headphones, always, IV drip,
my constant ruminations
coloured and contoured by their sounds,
those Songs of murderous outrage,
of ravenous bliss, incessant laughter,
tears of deep loss and grieving with heartache,
the whole lot surrendered
by notes together blended
in the cauldron of the heart.
Aye, I steer clear of the radio, paranoid,
like its contaminating viruses will take me
if I edge too close to the vulgar
display of shit conformity
that has characterized its spew.
You see, I am hospitalized
in the room complex of mastery,
that miserable delight
we bright ones share.
So I resist only myself.
So my health is important,
of critical significance, and I am balanced
on ideas like pills in their coffins,
or my stale coffee in the morning
that is the same routine, for now,
or my muffin for breakfast: depression;
or the cabinet that holds
another thousand crutches
for the broken and deranged.
Old thoughts return to me,
my past life
from yesterday, salvaged
out of the wreckage
of my mind.
Oh, mental illness is a lesson,
but Art has supported me,
saved me, even.