Dead.Mad


‘How green was my Valium’

Now St. Francis has been plugged into the mains.
Whitehot spiders skitter, hissing, from the grid.
They’ll spin tingling webs, to slake his pain,
And drive foul fly-thoughts from his brain,

To heal him. That’s what they did:
It was good. A drugged-up Jesus,
Wearing a Crown, Wearing a Crown,
Wearing a Crown, of electrodes, says:

“Hey, man, it’s, like, fantastic,
In this brand new neighbourhood!”
“Who cares if War, or Sin ,or Poverty
Never end? I’ve made the darkness my friend.”

“It’s amazing, what these people teach us all!”
Roared the crazy preacher,
Pinned against the wall, half-man,
Half-butterfly. “Each day

I see less and less of the insect, in me,
Fluttering under my skull”.
They left them all alone, to die,
Who once carved mad statues, miles high.

They kept them from the light
That’s brighter than the Sun.
They said; “Swallow these pills,
To cure all your ills!” They said:

“Swallow these pills: swallow nice, bright, skies!”
But the pills are alive
With the Sound of Muzak.
Hell! Who knows where the cameras point-

And who’s watching You? To survive,
You must be mad and dead, dead, dead;
Or half-alive, as sensible as bread,
A million flies buzzing, in our head!

© Richard Westall 2007