On a bright and sunny afternoon with cumulus clouds
Deacon was finally so bombarded with information
That it filled his pock marked face ‘til it was smooth.
A force so strong all excess fat blew away (a whole new wardrobe)
Deacon became a fine-looking man.
That had been his biggest hope in life
He rejoiced beyond the meaning of words
His eyes and ears and mouth fulfilled
(if you’re thinking mannequin, I’ve fumbled)
He was every bit a living, fluid, joyous human being.
Achieved by these gods’ torrent of information
There was no source, nor need for output of any kind.
Deacon was perfectly filled in every way.
If you drink too much ambrosia you can always throw-up
He’d found perfection so would never be heard from again.
editors note: If that full, not anywhere. - mh clay
Two people sitting, facing each other.
One vase stands stoically, silently between them.
Bisected at the sides in neon beige and neon black.
One person sees beige; one sees black.
Both are telling alternative truths.
But neither is telling the the vase’s truth, the complete truth.
Either side could have easily had a puppy fetus stapled to it.
Jennifer and Jack both start with the letter J.
Not implying they are intrasexuals or hermaphrodites.
I like desserts and people
Who bleed out sherry, not nonsense.
Unlike vases, Jennifers and Jacks can’t bisect and live.
That you want them to makes no difference
To those you’ve bored with your desires.
Relativity is the only all-absorbing entity.
If it were a river it would be dry and not a river.
If it were a theory, it would be over my head.
And if it were a floor, only tall people would survive.
Four alternative truths,
All based in my perception of truth, not relativity.
It follows this stanza should have five lines.
But I rarely live up to expectations.
The reason there are three is so it’s not a couplet.
editors note: For those who don't give a good zip-a-dee-doo-DADA. - mh clay
A lot of people I call “friends” don’t know that I’m insane.
“Insane” arouses passions when I really am quite tame.
“Tame” is a subjective word I feel that I attain,
Cause even though I have no skull, it’s hard to read a brain.
Using iams, I will try to make this next line work.
I’m bi-polar with little hints of schizophrenia.
Think: Fluctuating feelings with a little squirt of quirk.
At least that’s what my state says, and that’s California.
Thus, my doctors without bounds, they give me lots of pills.
A trillion dollar industry I’ve done my share to float.
You’ll see my graceful qualities, my motions, wit and skill,
Those stories that you might have heard, all petty anecdotes
But now when Tom-Tom eats his poo, I’ll open up the door.
We’re all in this conspiracy, It’s not for me to bore.
editors note: Cause or effect; his title or their trade? Aid for the doctors, or doctors for the aid? - mh clay
My first hallucination was the perfect one for me.
I had walked deep into the woods when rain began to fall
It fell so softly bending trees and rustling through the trees
The rain drops shone like blood red beads, descending on us all.
These colored drops turned colorless, following their falling.
The most relieving thing was that it painted nothing red.
To bathe the forest and myself in blood would be appalling.
The colored of the world remained, only the clouds had bled.
It was a warm and welcome thing, the rain had been to me.
I laid upon a massive rock, to let it wet me down.
And then it stopped, as rain will do, the sky had set it free.
I’d had my fill of ambrosia, there was no need to drown.
My Psych took back the pills next day, he had no way of knowing
That sanity is subjective, he’d got my engines going.
editors note: Just because it's an hallucination doesn't mean it isn't real. Red rain, baby! - mh clay
I won’t deny I have had my share of therapy.
Doctor’s concur, BiPolar Syndrome’s what my mind keeps prey.
It’s easy to converse with them, they listen quietly.
Their words are few, their thought’s acute, it’s scrips they have to say.
Eviscerated by the drugs, I’ve tried psychologists.
They talk much more and make much less with themes that don’t abut.
I’m not after my “Happy Place” or psycho-chatter myths.
I watch them smear with butter knives, where scalpels need to cut.
The last group of intuitives I let in are my friends.
Their problem is they snarl back and never give out meds.
Well, that’s not true. But they love me, they’ll stay there in the end.
It’s crazy ’cause I can’t make use of twenty cogent heads.
So, do I glean truths from these varied groups or am I self-absorbed?
Oh. Maybe that’s the illness that I ought to have explored.
editors note: Self-diagnosis; over the counter, under consideration. - mh clay
It was one of those days; the boss spitting out wrath,
His venom was clinging; I craved to be clean.
I needed to soak in a hot bubble bath,
have some anxiety pills, maybe more than routine.
Finally restored, I pulled out the plug.
The strain and pain swirled down the drain.
But one bubble grew, out-sizing the plug.
I stood back, my rational reasoning in vain.
An amiable bubble, no sense of dread,
He bubbled about while I put on my robe.
He bounced on beside me and saw me to bed.
Then popped and dropped, this curious globe.
I may never be able to prove he was there;
But, I’d made a friend who was both gracious and rare.
editors note: Never outgrow her/him. We stressed out adults need imaginary friends. - mh clay
When the psychiatric Chorus yearns to learn,
The answers to questions for mind pain, so far,
Well intentioned treatments are slowly adjourned,
When probability falls within the bell jar.
Never so uncertain as when dispensing pills,
And conjured up cures come in percents.
That the tiny tablets we swallow when ill,
Reveal side-effective supplements.
Know the sum of these might irritate,
as they spark to soothe the troubled mind.
Regurgitating, hallucinating, even organs mutilate,
Trembling hands and eyes caught in the blinds.
So ask for help – step in the abyss.
Cause you never know what you might miss
editors note: Beneath the bell or in the blinds, observation imposes control. Step out and step in! (We welcome Tom to our crazy confab of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of Tom's madness on his new page - check it out!) - mh clay
The great states of mind vary endurability.
A faith for Gods can last for thousands.
Routine mental illnesses, clearly less ably.
The ADD’s and CCD’s inspire fewer years and funds.
The sick in the mind are damned to be scotched.
We Schizos, Bi-Polars, Paranoids still exist.
Compassionate, helpless loved ones watch;
Its the “Psychs, Meds and Shady-Shaman Twist.”
That’s me, Bi-Polar for life (without choice).
The manic’s grandiose attitude and more.
Depressed, I’ll want to shut anyone’s voice,
While brooding alone on a Bronte moor.
And all the other different colored doors,
Find ways to rest minds gone to war.
– Tom Hall
editors note: Pick prognosis best matched to malady. Door number one? Door number two? - mh clay
Make no mistake, its no fun when you’re manic.
When it starts, maybe so, but it soon can turn frantic.
When blindsided by sights it can lead to a panic
I’m writing this way to show its not romantic.
I was in a canoe on a still quiet lake,
So you paddle three times and enjoy the ride.
But when I looked down, it couldn’t be fake,
A small symphony was playing inside.
I couldn’t hear a note, with them all under water,
And I knew down deep that they could not be there.
Just faces and hands that were all in a blur
and then I was past them, but Christ what a scare.
This actually happened because of my meds,
Once more I’d been torn from the reins to my head.
editors note: A day in the life of a pendulum swinger; symphonically submerged (one, two, three - one, two, three). - mh clay