Madness Montage

Where?

Beyond the red door
(when sanity's day is done,)
you'll find the other side
of the sunken sun...

between Grecian pillars
in the wide marble spaces
of Hesse's 'dream theater'
where ambition's neurosis
takes primal sabbatical...

in the coke-honed melodic wailings
of Pablo's horn
as he guides
modernity-crazed daytime people
through the soothing Satanisms
of the semi-nihilistic night rites,

where new denizens
of the darkness find long-sought
refuge from the pressures and ravages
of poverty's crowded oppression
and from lonely, haunted power alike:
all learning and joining
in the ritualized downing
of social cocktails and wines
to melt the spiny ice
of these anti-social times...

and to ease converse and nerves
twitching in voluptuous panic
at the psyche-convulsing initiation
into the renewedly respectable
practice of the carnal traditions
of the classical world

Pablo's horn slows down now,
before being joined by
the trumpet-wielding 'Wolfman'
in a seductive devil's duet:

wild but mellow jazz
to lead the numbed naked needle
through the eyes, twists and turns,
into the snags and elations
of Greek penetration...
that status-actualization that dissolves
vicious class anxieties
and unleashes
so many womens' desirous beasts...

how happily if shrilly they scream
at the twisted split
their submitted rear pumpkins
are subjected to...
though it will hurt later
as the barbaric ghost of Dionysus
enters the splayed hole
of their daemonized derrieres...

and as ethereal steam
he enters into their blood to linger
like a guiding deviant demi-god,
whitening their skin,
darkening their hair,
and so changing the nature
of their cares

but now, now:
we must have drugs, and drugs.
We must have lovely Dada "demented" dances,
boxing matches, suicides,
ghoulish gambling...

and then
sabbaticals in psych wards
with elven nurses and jack-booted psychiatrists
on staid megalomaniac stages,
juggling shrunken heads for 5 days
before releasing their monsters
to their shelters, to their caves,
and to their lavish townhouses...
to their wives and girlfriends
or just to their alleys
and the magical spirits they follow

up and down and up
the urban park stairs
in rags
or in suits,
the mad walk among us
in obvious derangement
but also poised and smartly dressed
swinging their brief-case sceptres
of indisputable power....

though they howl
like blood-lusting 'Steppenwolves'
in the moon-ruled hours,
hearing melodic angel-songs
in the sordid solicitation calls
from the leggy, shade-fair forms
of ornamented street walkers...

Their "mad" eyes
seeing Van Gogh's unearthly visions
in the banal street-light glow,
and the progress of
the Mothman Prophecies
in the nonsensical nuances
of the news,
in the storms,
and in the gasoline-rainbow flows
across once prosperous parking-lots
still busy but with the thickest
and grizzliest of traffic...

No place is safe nor profane
from the travelers
of madness...
with their minds split
between life and death,
and their souls burning
with mystic curiosity...
(followed by demonic voices)

they follow the soaring manic glow
into life, unto death,
until they're free....  
until they "know"