…and also it is the dead eyes of a psychopath that terrify me most,

your eyes staring back at me, staring back with coward

like jealousy oozing out, yellow pus filled, the small secretion

of envy wrapped in guilt, draped in opulent greed

and enveloped, bound and laminated in your own self belief;

hubris defied you and allowed you to stand tall with ignorance.

How far does the delusion go? Does it spread all the way through

to the point of no return and your words

unable to fathom the point of exit,

from above or below?

It’s rare to meet a human wretch, of the odious slug

in the I am first person, only person, no other person, singular mode,

who can be both psycho intent and intensely territorial

that he would piss on his own shoe just to claim its lace.

 

Yet I feel sorry for you, you have been shown

no better way to behave

that you cannot see through the chimes of your own

steaming entrance, the smoke that you believe

to be dry-ice and the fanfare, raised to warn the overworked folk

of the village that the destructive one is at hand, is your theme tune,

picked out personally because you believe they like you.

And yet, yet I see those eyes, I see the haze build up

as if they are struggling to contain the cognitive misfire,

for how can I be ignored so, is the thought scampering round your head

and one that echoes chillingly in the empty can

left on the shelf, starved of interesting things to say and sucked

dry of meaningful mental pursuits, save the psychotic eye that roves

in self-indulgent materialism and the belief of console dogma.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015