The Armchair Guide to Insanity

This lack of light as papers lie upon the floor,
a moth flies its blind course, searching for a lost heart to eat.
A dog lies there dreaming.

The armchair talks as Mr. Sheen caresses it’s surface,
the cushions once sat on by an aimless crowd,
their creases to be ironed and removed.

The wallpaper shudders as the shadows reflect.
The radio provides a background sound,
as the outside silence completely surrounds.

As you lie in bed dreaming of others,
your Mother caresses her creased mates’ head,
he snores and groans and becomes a mystery star

But a living room squalor is noticed,
as mislaid clothes lie awaiting wear.
Coat hangers live unused lives.

Why do armchairs talk when no on listens?
Why are artificial flowers no longer plastic,
but silk and soft and real?

A melody resounds, an ear is pierced,
cushions crumble as the earth quakes.
A product of pills? But who really knows?

The air is smoke, the breath is choked,
as the heart of a young girl,
beats for the love of her mate.

Three a.m. as problems appear,
a suicide case slashes his wrists,
his wristband laughs and he cries all night.

A stomach rumbles for no ones sake,
then it laughs at me behind my back,
with soft skin and the odour of soap.

Like the drunken fool who falls in a doorway,
and a mobile swine arrives to catch.
Do we love these thoughts?

A tissue can soak the tears,
of a muscular man as he cries in his hands.
He has lost his mate, she has run, she is gone.

Virginity is rife, as lovers fight,
a memory is split, blood spills.
A poor heart cries it’s beat for no ones sake.

A mental defect arises,
as the lids of your eyes fall short of sleep.
The comfort of a bed awaits your head.

You are beheaded but still think.
Your thoughts are of Caesar and the roaming mass.
Fools lie in combine and knife each other.

Everyone dies,
but it is only my heart that stops.