Only Real Men Go To Sleep Worried About Warts & All

I am smelling madness's soft bouquet as it pouts across the folds of my mindless brain, as it increases speed over the hills of the country in which I was born. The land of Bradshaw art and golden soup that is left for the dogs of music and art, those old barren bitches that lounge searching for metaphor and hidden doors within word and sentence and oil and pastel and poem and velvet jacket. I have so little time to see the old lady die, so little time to watch as the real zoo burns between pause and neglect. Where will these canoes take us? to the land of the falcon with the silver brooch pinned to its claw, tearing at the chain that is linked to the almond boat that glides a full half mile in front of the sober man that sinks down below his own education. Ah! there is no true arrogance amongst the young homosexual Indian boys, there is no true colour between the advertisements and the brick. Do you have that song bruising your imagination? Still after you have circled this road of gravel and cement you have deserved this dome, this church and sanctuary of madness.  I hail you and all you stand for, if only your soldiers would walk past your dying body to cry and mutter and decorate your halo with true jewels of accusation and memory. If only there was one more adventure to be had, another country to behold, another god to slay in the eyes of the lady general. I disagree with the short jew, hidden behind the English smog, I disagree with the quiet catholic, the old man who thinks he is Saint Lavender. I ignore the darkness in the day and forget the light as it shines into my mirror. Real reflection is buried by the moss and the oriental flowers that grow happily behind the fence, there that is my inspiration. Can't you see the list of things I once thought important? Can't you see the tiredness slap against the eardrums of bedlam? I felt my legs vibrate with an old wish, I felt my buttocks shake with an old desire. My trophy it stood straight on my carpeted wall and some fish swam down stream. Lazy, little fish. The stream it had rocks on its banks, the water it specks of gold and silver that tumbled through it. I stood there watching as it flowed toward the explosion's end, that great, orange and never ending explosion, and I looked for the geranium sky. I wanted to be the new sky that was pulsating and echoing, shuddering and flashing. I had no real desire, I had no diamonds in my eyes, no triumph or ordinary thought. I believed in the brown skinned boy who pulled the ropes of a church unnamed. I asked myself the different questions of being correct, oh Egypt, where are your great carpet princesses now, you own me like the sting owns the bee. I want to slide into your empty missile and see the butterflies forget our names. Only real men go to sleep worried about warts and all.
by Timothy Bocquet