Madness begins in Exile

Since we just observed the Melinoeia, it seems appropriate to post this.  It's one of my favorite poems that I've written.  I wrote it in a particular state of madness, several years ago.  In fact, as you might notice from the title, I'm pretty sure it preceded and spawned the "in Exile" concept of my blog's title.

Isadora in Exile

hair raises

skin crawls

the ghost within is writhing

and she’s wanting nothing  (not)

more                                  (true)

than a drink, or a few

and the sweet sharp symmetry

of skin, broken for ink

(I do)

it well/s (up), it’s fine

she counts on state of mind

--onetwothreefour--

Oh, Isadora! you’ve lied

while you lived and

you burn when you hide –

he replied, “In deed.  And in sanity.”

yes, the soul may divide

it self hope full and hope less,

while it’s daydreams for breakfast

(they taste bitter in the un-

                    rest)

where peace battles numbness

it is, it is this

and it’s

this

and it’s this and it’s

night again, so we meet

where saltwater creeps

and she’s chanting (chant-chant-chanting)

for sleep

      (for a sign)

begging Stars

     to align

she knows, contemplating constellations

is the only (sure) explanation

to keep her (name) from changing

or raging and/orating, and poetry-making

so she can House herself

between liminal

unreliable sunrises

    (and regards)

            little else

she wants nothing more

than her blue, bruised eyes

to be kissed,

one at a time/to be kissed

one, at a time

she wants nothing more

she, Isadora,

(excepting your) wants (is)

nothing

(any) more