Harris Coverley

The Madhouse

I think I am in hell, therefore I am in hell
—Rimbaud, “Night of Hell”

The walls still bleed
When the night is so hot
And the walls are carved
Like the flesh of an arm
By the passing years
Cruel as I am

(ha, ha)

You can hear the screams of the others
From the adjoining chambers
But really
To be true
It is the screams you cannot
Hear which keep me awake

(ho, ho)

Grim and not too lively
Subtle like the flies ‘round a dead rodent

Christ, that takes me back…

And to think it all started
On that fateful day
On which I was born…

(tee-hee)

Thank God for these rusted bars
As the wind whispers:
“…murder…”

(ha!)

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