The Mad Satyr

I wrote this because

I forgot that it didn’t matter;

That I wrote this to destroy

The unanimous spatter,

The clatter, and battered,

For the batch of mediocrity

I choose to shatter

And tear to tatters.

Mad, mad, mad, mad-hatters

Might think me a bit madder,

From the height I blabber

To the depths from a ladder

Borne from entrails of the nagger

And it’s nagging.

I wrote this to fill a void,

A blank page too much destroys,

Like Death’s silence louder than noise.

Have you dyed the coffin splatter

Black with the make-up platter?

Are you too shook-up to look up

From the words and page-up

To the definition, a fuck-up

With the red squiggle;

Is your page filled-up…

Yet?

Have you crushed the norm,

So it clutches the morn,

Enticing the storm,

And the Dawn borne

to night too close to the morn-

-ing star?

Be warned…

I wrote this page as a mentalist;

Fundamental and existential;

Archaic damnation on a scroll

Too quick before the Act, and the troll

Beneath your bridge

Rewrote this page

To near the ending of Earth’s menstrual

Cycle, bleeding from its Magna Carta

Clam; seeding new life, Constitution-ally

Devoid of righteous seething,

Breathing out, exhaling gold dust

For oxidized iron manacles;

Dig on X the skin-map says:

On the mark painted bright

By a stale breeze of the laughing drunk,

Told by the Miller daft before a Knight;

Calm by the fire, forged to quill-pen writing,

From third-word tongue and two-cent

Lung, equivalent solidity

Of cigar smoke rising from the lips,

Warmed by improvisations that

Black-balled humanity far from the oyster’s

Pearl just around the corner, how Sailors

Think in secret and in push, to whaler-

Obsessions and those great white collar

Delusions of happier finds,

From a polymer moral to the plastic

Conclusion; pewter as silver,

And silver are all dreams buried

Tarnished and decomposing.

Dig on the X the Earth-map says:

Can you dig?

Can you dig?

Or is the shade to dark

For the growing tree’s bark;

Stark in the plight,

And a lark blots the Sun.

Where did it go—Life—?

You dug to long;

Low, but not deep enough

And blotted out the Sun!

There is no treasure left,

There’s no pleasure left,

There is no measure left,

Or cleft notations to subjugate

The silence left

When the Music quit ringing,

And now the mind is reeling,

For reality and death grows

Closure and out of Nothing

Grew lament for a living Done;

What’s left of you, what's left of Man,

What’s left of All when you blot out the Sun?

I wrote this to interrupt a page,

To disrupt perfection and mock

Its colonic indifference:

The Mad Satyr, sings for his fare,

His wage for a boat ride’s sage,

To pass the journey’s foreboding way,

Oh Fate; that delivered the Great Papyrus,

I give it back for the Fire, and the Pain,

For the wretched and depraved,

For the purity, the knave and the fits—

I interrupted God once…

When I shattered the clay pot,

He could never fix.