Two poems of Madness here:
Hellfire and a Secret Smile

The Solace of a Strange Angst

Hellfire and a Secret Smile
Red flame of hell

Life's greatest irony:
We build things that will crumble and be forgotten.

Learning to speak
Learning to walk.

Building an education,
Building a career.

Building a home,
for family so dear.

Building a retirement,
cemetery plots and wills.

Ashes to ashes,
dust to dust.

But all the while, as we lived
unbeknownst to each of us,

We were building a tomb,
not of stone or marble,

Nor mausoleums
with name inscribed,

But a tomb fashioned from all that we said and did in this life.
A resting place for all eternity, a grave of the self with no exit.

And if that tomb too should eventually crumble,
Then our time spent in it will seem an eternity.

If there by creativity in the grave then, Plato,
why are you not more now than you were when you died?


Sometimes the living think of me.
They like that one story about how I fumbled and fell.

But it does not make me feel well
Some remember me as I lay sick,

My face, painted in a coffin.
A suit and a tie, the embalmer's work done.

I'm sorry for the times I became angry,
were they not erased by the laughter?

Did not love win out in the end?
Was it not a blanket on my death bed?

Could love not pull me home when I sought pleasure?
Is this truly how my life should measure?

Now taking explosives, dangerous and volatile.
Holding wick to flame, erase all!

Let the source cure me.
The heart is a universe and within lie all other hearts.

That tomb was a maze I made when, in life, I
wandered aimlessly inside my own heart and mind

When I died I back tracked,
until I came back to the source.

Fear now,
All that I was is lost in the source.

Tears now,
I want to keep it all but I cannot separate the joy from the pain.

Smiles now,
the secret smile in life is no longer a secret.

There is a garden and its bouquet is essence.
The rose bush yields but one droplet, joyfully.

The Solace of a Strange Angst

Empty mime mask I'm five thousand years old and I feel it,
But I could go on for another two hundred thousand.

Things are just now getting interesting
and the future will be even more interesting,
assuming we make it and we've got a shot at it.

A rogue program in my computer and its me.
layers of software abstraction piling up
like our mind does as it gets older.

And after I burn in pleasure,
I get empty and alone.

This creature human lost in the deep vastness of space.
Fragment of Terran biosphere in a floating bubble,
vulnerable to a million fires set by God.
A thousand of us could not resolve that heartache and want of home.

But there for a brief instant, too short for thought to detect,
is the answer laying there in that impossible place,
where the tired, meandering mind treads.

Intangible yet permanent.

Fatigue breaking down those hard fought patterns of thought-feel,
Trodden paths of heavily inked image-feel dissolving in apathy,
Translucent cultural artifacts painting over everything we can see beyond a conditioned reflex.
Close your eyes and see black.

Burn it down! Torch the mind garbage!
Make your mind young, by making it empty.

Don't cling to that old religio-politico ideology.
It makes you older. Its a cage around your heart not your mind

What? You found God through that mental construct?
No you didn't, you're trapped. Break free from what they'll think of you!
Run you fool! Run!

Remember that vista, mountain, sunset, blue sea, flower, snow covered lovely?
The mind ink melted away so you could see it for a moment and it was beautiful.

Where is the glorious wonder you saw when you were two?
Its still there. That daisy still glows golden.
The light around your mother is still there.
Remember? It was the light you could feel.
Remember that day when mundane colors became strangely neon?
That light is more tangible than skin scraped off your kneecap,
elbow banged on concrete, bloody headsmack, ginsu knife slicing flesh.

'Channel Me' television feed of want, fear, sexy hunk babes and I am king,
now cross circuit, optic nerve intersect, Channel Me is channel ink.

Funny how ink makes light dim, the sky plain blue and the sun just yellow

You once ran in a green field under a blue sky no paint could match
and you felt earth life but you couldn't analyze it because it wasn't an idea

Like the damaged brain can't connect, you couldn't bring it into the construct
There was no door from there to here, and so you forgot it.

Power off the construct, just stop. You can do it.
Sensory input sucked into a mind vacuum.
No conclusions, no 'what now?'

An empty mind can rule every last thing upon this earth,
so make yours empty.

Then, when your time comes,
you'll know just how to die.


Copyright Tiger Crane Entertainment