Bi-polar

when it comes it comes, this self void hysteria
of massive consequence, taking us high.
its wings take us to a place not unlike the flower
of opium and the cocoa plant. and we fly into mania.

how long will you last?
you other half of the ragpicker,
you touch of lightness in the midst of the dank,
you mountaintop of the mind.

how long will i be standing here
before the wind sweeps my mind from
beneath
me
all crashes
my wings are clipped and
i am pictured falling backwards to my pit?

i cannot get out of bed; i cannot sooth into sleep.
but this is what is fuelling my paper as it
sparks with my brain’s condition.
they act as one, create; they mix
and i lose my identity -
all is well for a while.

i love this fluidity and the flights of sexual fancy,
fantasy: there is nothing i have not been,
there is nothing i cannot imagine,
i have seen it all.

if only this could last
these rooms would not vanish

but the dark parts out-exist all else,
they dominate.

but i go on.

this paper makes me alive once more,
i feel the elatedness of frederick the great
steeling the night for his english love.
this pleasure is mine own
i am the only one to possess this truth!
the power of this rebellion which reaches beyond the skies!

the wind wraps my face a second skin,
the pitch of the countryside a black and white cezanne;
i will awaken its colours,
i will lift the sun,
place it in its rightful place with my thumb and my finger,
all will be bleached to my will.
all will