Music IV

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.