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Adrian Strider Feb 2015
hatter hatter, old hatter mad,
did you know crazy is the fad,
for a man filled with the dope,
because he knows how not to cope.

Hatter hatter, old hatter mad,
crazy is his latest fad,
he, who is only a bloke
whose mind is so broke.

Hatter hatter, old hatter mad,
crazy will always be his fad,
he has always been so choked,
so all he can do is be moped.
To the
Hatter
Everyone is

Mad
As can be. Does that make him
Dangerous? No, Just a

Hatter, who is crazy as can be.
And, when that day comes he shall futterwacken...vigorously.
Time makes us more insane,
Time makes us remember
Everything from our past.
Remember and learn; Underland can be wonderful again.

"There is a place. Like no place on Earth. A land full of wonder,
mystery, and danger! Some say to survive it: You must be mad
as a hatter. [picks up his hat] Which likely I am."
~The Mad Hatter

Mad Hatter: Have I gone mad?
[Alice checks Hatter's temperature]
Alice: *I'm afraid so. You're entirely bonkers. But I'll tell you a
secret. All the *best people
are.
copyright; McNally, Inc. 2010
6/28 Nina McNally
Avy Fabros Nov 2018
Let me tell you a story,
a rendition of Alice's story:
Her fall down the rabbit hole,
Her descend down ever after.
She as a girl, with dreams so high,
They were towering,
she believes in achieving.
But one day Alice learned:
Day isn't as bright as she had always known.
The sun's not shining,
The sky's as dark as evening.

With a blade in her hands,
The gate opened with her blood.
No doubts, no qualms.
She jumped.
Deeper, farther, the march hare she met.
She tore through every door,
ON! to the new world she moved on.

She met twins, nameless
They were fighting, endless
The prophesy foretold something,
But she's not that Alice, she's different.
She growled, she screamed.
The world froze.

This is her world now,
And she will claim it no matter what.
She is Alice,
An Alice gone mad.
Wouldn't she make the best partner
of a hatter they know best?

Hatter is hatter,
Hatter became her armor, her sword her shield,
Whatever she wanted him to be.
Together they fought, charged hand in hand.
Off with the red queen's head,
Off with the jabberwock's
Hatter gave her a purpose,
But hatter left her to fend in that new world.

Gone is hatter,
still and cold.
And there goes Alice screaming back and forth.
Hatter became her life,
But they both lost against Time.
Now tell me,
Who is Alice without hatter?
What is Alice with a purpose?
With hatter gone, how will the story ever end?
Nikki daze Mar 2014
Tick-tock tick-tock goes the clock tick tock tick tock what the ****?
Tick tock tick tock goes the clock I'm going to trip I'm going to fall down the staircase to wonderland.  
Tick-tock tick-tock that clock just won't ******* stop
Tick tock tick tock, knock, knock, hatter hatter open up it's me.
Tick-tock tick-tock the times a ticking, knock knock knock Hatter please the walls are going to get me.
He hee hee they wanna play he hee hee I think they're coming to get me.
Queen, the queen she screams he hee hee she still laughing at me.
Tick-tock tick-tock Hadder please I need to speak with you about the teatime tray please let us not play this little game,
Hatter, password what's the password tick-tock tick-tock hatter Please the clocks ticking.
The walls the walls are breathing again tick-tock tick-tock hatter I need you now I'm begging you,
the queen, the queen she's going to get me.
Tick tock  tick-tock hatter ******* free me, I can't take anymore this tick-tock tick-tock *******.
the mouse, the mouse is running up the clock tick tock tick tock the clock struck one. Hickory dickory dock let me out of this ******* clock
Shrooms and wonderland don't mix when ur stuck in the grandfather clock
Jesse Collins Aug 2017
Out of mind, out of sight
This stories far from over
And the endings mine to make
Round and round you shall go
In Wonderland you shall be
I am as mad as a hatter
Or by those who no me
I am the Mad Hatter
Ask yourself
What if it was different....
What if the hatter had a secret
What if the hatter was evil
No one would see it comin'
He'd be the unlikely foe
How different would it have been
Lurking from shadows
The fixed piece on the board
Bit by bit the world
Will tremble
Alice and friends be puppets
All the world a stage
Darker and darker
The plot thickens
Till he reveals
He's true self
I certainly don't own the Alice in Wonderland series or characters but the works have interested me for sometime especially in this case... I have always wondered what would have happened if the Mad Hatter was the bad guy.
Jasmine Blick May 2012
The Hatter walked down the street
He was in search of Alice unaware who she'd meet

He'd lost her a few hours back
It was this time he regretting having to lack

They could've been to Wonderland by now
With some kind of talking cow

The Hatter looked left and right
But Alice just wasn't with in sight

He pondered on how he had lost her
But it seemed all a blur

They had been running for hours it seemed
It was still nothing like they'd dreamed

They sat down to rest up
Then these red cards showed up

The Hatter awoke to screams in his ears
And the ear shattering tears

"Release my Alice" he said with an invisible tear
"It'll be okay dear"

The Hatter pulled something from his jacket
It was a platinum hatchet

Striking the red and white blurs
Something agitated his nerves

He turned to be strikes in the head
There the cards figured he'd been dead

Now he's here wondering these busy streets
Worrying about Alice hoping she escaped the dead beets

Then a familiar car he saw...
"ALICE!?!?" He screams in aww
"Have you any idea why a raven is like a writing desk?"
~Later, towards the end~
Alice asks, "Hatter, why is a raven like a writing desk?"
Mad Hatter: "I haven't the slightest idea."
Then Alice disappears back home.*
So why is a raven like a writing desk?
Ravens symbolizes death and to me Writing symbolizes
freedom.
But when you think about it ravens fly-- come and go as they please. Writers feel like that when they write at a writing desk--
come and go as they please.
So maybe there's the answer...
Ravens are free, and a writing desk is a place to be free.
But maybe a raven is also like a writing desk because most good poems deal with some type of grief, or joy...Every good poet deals with issues with life and the grief that comes with death. Every great writer has troubles-- look at; Edger Allen Poe, Dylan Thomas, and Emily Dickerson, just to name a few. Edger often wrote of ravens and drank, Dylan also drank, and Emily was afraid to go outside. We all have troubles, but only a certain amount of people can write about them in poetry and make the words be so beautiful. So maybe in the movie there was no answer, but it all seems to random to have no answer. So here's my answer: Freedom and Troubles, Ravens have/deal with both as well as a writer at a writing desk.
Do you know why a raven is like a writing desk?
copyright; McNally Inc. 2010
6/28 Nina McNally
not a poem, just thoughts.
It might be the pungent steam from a ***
steeping herbs meant to bend its sippers'
minds to potent effect, or an unanticipated
digestive reckoning from that mawkishly flavored
brand of store-bought paste they pass as butter.

However the dough arises, their collective
recollection of storied events, lengthwise sliced
and ritually rehearsed, hops facilely on the ****
of a bucking and overtly nonsensical wind.

Tea parties with slippery perspectives
have been shown quite clinically to induce
heightened sensitivity in participants,
so it's prudent to set about tidying the facts:

The hatter, it's become clear, shifted one place
too many and disappeared with a trace -- leaving
behind his hat to nobody's great advantage.
Lacking a wearer, the headgear's reputation for
producing madness has rapidly diminished.

The march hare pulls off his change in a very
separate and seasonal way: the bunny's
bottom half somersaults its top to occupy
both his spot and the hatter's vacated seat.

The dormouse upon its latest arousal
is re-visioned to be small, but not much mouse
at all. He's plush with the long-in-the-ear habit
of a pink stuffed rabbit, which the crusading hare
furiously declares is most curious, casting
doubt on the vermin's commitment to "no room."

Alice remains foremost in tact and is given
a bonus of two spare feet complete with slackened
bootstraps. She keeps them and her other luxury
items well-sheltered behind a stout table leg.

The absentee hatter doesn't dare shame her
with a radio-show call-in decrying
the waste. She's generously agreed to
cover the medical expenses from his firm flop.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
Ponds Mar 2016
To define him is a difficult challenge
To impersonate him is a hard task too
But who is this man with a hat on his head?
It seems like everyone has no clue.

It is the Hatter!
The most mad of all
He is also a type of friend that you can call
You can call when you fall, and no longer can crawl
But be careful!
You might don't want to see him go wild at the hall.

What was the hatter with him?
Oh yeah, he's mad!
It is the effect of high mercury
Oh, poor dear lad!

He very much love tea parties
Along with his friends including Alice
He's the weirdest man that you'll ever meet
And he has this mad, crazy, wonderful treat.

Because his madness has no end
He may look like he can harm
But don't worry, my friend,
That is just the attitude of his charm.
Jasmine Blick Apr 2012
The hatter with horns
Made his dear Alice a promise
"Wonderland my dear
We'll take you there
You'll never have another fear"

He pulled his Alice close
"Come on dear just run
To the rabbit hole you know?
No papers
And no signatures
Just grab my hand and I'll guide the way"

"I doubt a little trip
Down a rabbit hole will cure me
Of all the pain she left me.."
I disagree with my simple friend

Tick tock, tick. tock.
Tick..tock.., tick...tock...
The clocks around so Then suddenly stop
As the hatter bows his head
And all the lights slowly dim

"Its so simple Alice my dear
Take this hand I hold out toward you
Grip it tight and never let go
We'll run till we see Whitey
Climb in his cab and he'll drive us the rest of the way

With a few conditions of course
'No Food Or Drink
No Dying
No Puking
No Nothing Else'

Once we get to the Rabbit hole
Hold to me tight
We'll fall quite a ways


But just remember
In Wonderland everything is nonsense
I will protect you there

My dear Alice
All the pain will go away
Now quick make a decision
Pain or carefree"

"But won't she hate me?
If I'm gone they'll miss right?
What if they forget me?"
The clocks start ticking again
Tick....tock...., tick...tock...
Tick..tock.., tick.tock.

"Time is ticking Alice
Our 15 seconds are up Its now or never"
The hatter bows with his hand stretched out

"Yes!" I whisper
Reaching for his hand
With a quick spin he whispers into my ear
"Run dear...ready?
3...2...1"
I need help fixing this.....
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
. 'as for those poets, only the perverse follow them. do you not see that they go too far in every direction and say things, which they cannot do?' (ash-shu'ara / the poets 26:224-226).

call them what you like,
the Huguenots,
for all i care...

   you always side with
the "heretics"...
  
   given that, "said" heretics
retain some cultural value
relativism of other cultures,
namely in the form of
depiction -

    since why would, "the word"
be deemed holy,
    ****-naked,
                rather than donning
a bikini of "iconoclasm"...
         when words... are at
the meat-market of copyright -
what with © coca cola?

                 sunni islam would have
never allowed sufism...
  but Farsi does...
  and will continue...
since no Iranian will bow
before an Arab within the schematics
of history...

          Sunni Islam, it's Wahhabi sentimentality...
so why persist in signing
the Adhan?
   why not speak in a honing like
drone sentiment of plain speech?
i thought all music was banned?
the current Adhan is a form
of music... isn't it? BAN IT!

    you never side with these Sunni
muslims, exploiting Bangladeshi labor,
you side with the heretics of Iran...
these *******, i can at least respect...
  
      no fast cars, convenient ongoing
cultural insurrections -
   Sufism...
       Afghan women's poetry,
and all that much closer to Hindu mysticism...
    
yeah... "islamophobia":
but only against Sunni Islam...
   but Shia Islam?
   no problem...
   i could stomach these peoples
like i could stomach the in-between
of the Turkish variant -
no ideology - simply, pure, power throttle...

i could make a great Janissary -
with a Turkish barber...
         for a great trim of hair and beard...
i'd cast a shadow on some
obscure chocolatier of Brussels
who thinks himself a politician...

     but there are certain aspect of Islam
i am willing to tolerate...
   what happened to the son in law
of Muhammad, namely, Ali...
was raw ******* kicking...

               promises, promises...
no promises...
           Shia Islam, as an European,
i can tolerate, Turkish Islam, i can tolerate...
Turkey is incrementally shy
of being treated at the 2nd variant of Iran...
at least with Iran, we share a history
via the insurrection into the ancient
texts through Greece...

  come to think of it...
whenever i listen to
matta's song echo babylon...
i start feeding myself goosebumps,
reminding myself
of Cyrus... Nebuchadnezzar...
and the dim-wit that was
   Belshazzar...

always siding with the heretics...
if not on economic groundwork,
then at least motivating,
rather than monetizing an idea...

and the Shia muslims are...
    one way or another...
   unlike the gluttons of Dubai...
the barbie dolls of postage stamp
"proof" of progress,
in size, and worth...

   Sunni Islam would have
never allowed poetics to remain
a viable form of expression -
the Persian tradition that is,
far beyond the western concern
for a comment section...

         Shia Islam allows patronage
of the arts, notably poetry,
without concern for monetary
funding, it, at least, doesn't prohibit it...
given the pride of the Persians...
Sunnis and their continual quest
for finding water...
    sure... poetry is pointless within
such restrictions of
existential concerns...
    but... given the current, civilized
establishment?
   sky-scrapers in *******
sand dunes?

         the qu'ran should have
forbidden the architectural ambitions
equivalent to the tower of babel
being erected, in environments,
that could never sustain said projects...

    and who originally spewed the term
islamophobia?
Sunni Islam...
        i never liked this strand of belief...
i hate the Sunnis like
a Shia partisan...

p.s. it's called patriotism is America...
but nationalism in Europe...
    you sure that's not a synonym?
Europeans can't be patriotic,
and Americans are never nationalistic?

...

   well: how could i ever convert to islam,
i do enjoy the adhan from time to time,
"sorry", but i do...
  i can't help it:
if i'm a sucker for pop songs,
i'm also a sucker for the adhan...
   crusader songs, templar songs become
stuffy after a while...
and last time i checked:
     there were the northern crusades
against the baltic people:
notably prussians, lithuanians...
with that cushion of: mediating the
escalation of war by the polacks...
coming from the east:
  last time i checked the mongols
didn't reach leipzig...
               buffer zone people...
and what of the ottoman onsalught
of vienna 1529: the ****** winged hussars
won the charge...

so, coming back to heidegger... aphorism 26
ponderings IX... how am i to not be
the historical animal?
         perhaps in german, in germany
i might become a non-historical animal,
to begin: anew, but with a terrible
past to hide, to negate...
   i could do that: if i were a german,
speaking german, in germany...
but i'm in england:
            i might have some roots in
Silesia, but it's "hard" to not be a historical
animal, an "animal" with a sense of time,
i.e. a future a past a present...
esp. under the english conditions
of: the biological animal momentum narrative,
like a tsunami, like an earthquake...
ripples throughout...
              i can't move forward with
the english championing darwinism every
single ******* step of the way...
why can't they hide darwin like the polacks
hid copernicus...
given the motto: copernicus -
who moved the earth, and stopped the sun...
why wouldn't i escape into history
if the current biological reality is:
(a) a yawn... the cruel nature of per se?
   the courting of pigeons on a t.v. antenna...
pigeons get rejected all the time,
lesson learned, he bows and bows,
coos... expands his tail feathers upon
the bow then folds them... she flies away...
repeat...
    (b) i can't escape being a historical
animal in the way that what the current
facts are being repeated have encountered
a whiff of Chernobyll...
              history is inclided to answer reality...
biology? not so much... not from what i've
seen and heard...
             truly a schizophrenics disney dream:
to walk among the newly insane feeling
like the only sane among them...
beau-ti-ful!
                   well... given the current criteria
of being bilingual as being synonymous
with being a schizophrenic...
           magic!
                    
   now the crescendo...aphorism 24
ponderings X:

              the word designates, the word signifies,
the word says, the word is (heidegger)...

i found that you can only write
"philosophy" with a neat, fixed vocab. regime,
clarity of boundaries...
    quadratic events in vocab.:

i.e. the reflexive: yourself, himself, itself etc.
and the reflective: your, self....
                       his, self...
                                  it, and the self...
                    ergo? atheistic scissors,
  the two articles, indefinite and definite
                                 a / the "self"...

i'm not playing "identity politics",
when i say that only two peoples ever managed
to sack Moscau... the mongols and the polacks
with the help of lithuanians,
"identity politics" only happens in
post-colonial society, akin to the english,
i'll speak the english,
but i will not be a cucked indian of
the former raj: i will eat the fish & chips,
i will eat the sunday roast,
   i will eat the english breakfast with great
delight...
            but i will not do what these former
colonial masters expect of me:
integrate at the expense of making my
mutterzunge into hubris!
stubborness contra pride...
                hard to tell the difference...

and why do i like heidegger so much?
i'm not into the ad homine arguments...
my grandfather, was, a communist party member...
so?
       i like heidegger... because he appreciates
poetics, i like that poets can share the same
values as philosophers,
thanks to heidegger: we have been requested
back into the republic...
if plato and islam didn't like us, hanging around,
some offshoot german thinker / promenade
enthusiast like used enough to,
i suppose: ban the theatre puppeteers...

i am not playing identity politics...
biological reality is not enough...
but archeological reality?
       can you really advance to counter?
i was born near:
Krzemionki Opatowskie, a Neolithic and
early Bronze Age complex of flint mines
for the extraction of Upper Jurassic (Oxfordian)
banded flints...
  personally? i don't believe in
the African genesis conundrum...
i believe "my" people originated from
the Indian sub-continent,
as, associated with the complex:
Indo-European categorization of language;
i'm still to see an African phonetic
encoding system, beside the hieroglyphics...

i, was, born, there! i'm not a displaced
post-colonial debacle between former master
and former slave...
i have: roots... i'm not ******* up to the fish & chips
brigade with a friday night's worth of curry...
i cook my own curry,
and by god: it is the food of the gods...
i'll give the blue indians that counter...
but sure as **** not the worth of mead
or whiskey...

if they only tolerated themselves,
sure, learn the english language,
but know this much:
           english is the modern lingua franca...
it's the language of economics,
forget the natives, too ignorant to learn
either deutsche or française:
island-folk...
                what else, what other attitude?
even the russians are like:
that land of the weirdos? the idiosyncratics?
yes, we know that land...
the only "thing" that shelters the english
are the h'americans, the south africans,
the australians etc.,
  sure as **** the scots aren't sheltering them...
and, mind you?
   if the i.r.a. really wanted to plant
a bomb?
   a real bomb? they'd revert from speaking
any english to begin with... resorting
to revising their usage of gàidhlig:
ga-id-hlig... gaelic...
   like the welsh, stubborn people, proud people,
retaining their Çymraeg...
celt: said kelt...
the glaswegian football team?
       Çeltic... not: keltic...
  borrowed from the greek: sigma (ς: cedilla to ****)...
   wow! all the particulars in the english tongue!
guess it would take an ausländer to spot them!

U-21 european championships,
england versus romania:
                           a magnificent match...
the youngsters playing better football
than the oldies in their mid to late / early 30s...

i'm trying to tolerate Islam,
               it's not in my nature...
            hell... i enjoyed visiting a turkish barber
shop, i still have an unflinching opinion that,
the turks are the best barbers in the world...
but...

              this quote, is going to **** you:
same aphorism / pondering (24 / X) -


*** fight videos - count dankula...
you know what i'd love to do to these little
snarky *****?
the french revolution isn't enough...
n'ah, them hanging, is not enough....
ever heard of the butchers' hook?
                 it's also callled close-up fishing...
imitation hang-man...
   you insert a fishing hook...
and you let the sweeney todd ****** dangle...
on a hook, rather than a noose...
lords of salem come your way?
i'd rather the snarky teen hanging off
a fisherman's hook than dangle
like some lynched ******...
beside the suffocation,
i'd like them with a fisherman's hook entombed
in their hard palette...
         i don't want them hanging...
what am i? a sadist?
  i want them on the fisherman's hook!
when suffocating without a broken spine absorbed
by the neck isn't enough!
  fisherman's hook gallows is a
masterpiece... of suffering...
  most certain...
  when cheap comedy is being towed...
making fun of bums, or homeless people...
the current society is so welcome
to bypass all the "adventures" of Loki...
but akin to the lords of Salem...
burn!? such a limitated imagination!

ah... right... digressing...
        the reflexive / reflective quadratic...
language - only if speech  has acquired
the highest univocity of the word does it
become strong (enough) for the hidden
              play of its essential multivocity
(as withdrawn from all "logic"),
             of which poets and thinkers alone
are capable, in their own respective modes
and their own directions of sovreignty.

we do live in a time of a lost sense
of dialectic, since we do not live in a time
of etertaining dialogue,
perfectly sensible opinions,
that's all we have...

                       if one of these snarky *******
came up to me...
they'd get a chance to experience a rubric
of 4, knuckles...
what's 189 centimeters in empirical?
6ft2...      oh!
                   see where imagination takes you?
and here i was: thinking i was without it!
butcher's hangman...
oh, not so easy...
                  
                fame by no association to fame...
just the tears of parents who raised their children
to be nothing more than rugrats...
annoying gnat like bothersomes;
and nothing quiet special to be associated
with weimar berlin...
     just, these,
   h'american mall onlookers
with pwetty-guy-for-a-white-fly-mentality,
as borrowed from californian
1990s punk;

re-used ****** losers.

mad-hatter's fraction: 10/6....
      0.666...
      well: to the given extent:
1.666666(7)....
     1, 0, /6,
no number is divisible by 0,
every number, divisible by 1:
is the same number...
    mad hatter's 10/6...

   re-used ****** losers...
i like that phrase...
        7 for every 6, 7 for every 6...
until the 0. fraction comes
a 1.: exponential serf of 0...
0 being the multiplier...
          
         i really am growing a beard to less
don it, but rather to experience
a relief from patience...
war robots?
the first non n.p.c. game...
i like that, very much...
      and when i did:

you know my first experience of
love at first sight?
the younger sister of my then girlfriend...
****** up ****...

love at first sight is a terrible phenomenon...
i was nearing 18, she was barely 13...
i was dating her older sister...
but it was love at first sight,
the trouble with: love at first sight:
it doesn't lie...
it tries to lie...
          but it can't lie...

   paedophilia? a bit... untouched bodies
though... bodies of people who were
never supposed to touch...
i once said to a fwend:
well wouldn't it be ****** up if i touched
her?
   she's a muse, which doesn't translate
into vacating her as a busy body
worth of a touch, does it?
     if only my old friend samuel said
otherwise:
sylvester "contra" tweety:
my first girlfriend...
but her sister?
         i was nearing 18, she was about 13...
love at first sight...
untouched, cradled, unscathed...
and so she remained...
   until she did what every girl would
have done...thank god she remained
a figment of my imagination...
   rammstein: rosernrot...
    
           i have seen love at first...
such a load of ******* that it had to be
the younger sister of a girl i was dating...
and the **** that i had to be 18 and see
was just beginning her teenage transition...
the world unfair i grant
the most justifications... as being
the (just - unnecessary adjective) arbiter...

love at first sight becomes a forbidden love...
love at first sight was always a forbidden
love...
           and the sort of "love" that achieves
a perspctive of change that doesn't
translate into old age...
love at first sight is soon translated
into a love of affairs closely associated
with middle-age disenfranchised
state of affairs...
i.e. to love again...
            how else to feel relief from
having lost both one's inhibitions
               as well as one's ambitions?!
in the conundrum of the mortal
"question" of the continuum being
preserved?
Sarah Feb 2016
I was lost and had not a clue
Till I commented on a poem and met you
A man who fascinated me every day
A man who lived so far away
He said he was mad like the Hatter
I asked him why did that matter?
My Hatter was mad indeed
When he got on a plane to come see me
We fell fast
Many doubted we'd last
Yet we continue to hold eachothers hearts
My Hatter and I will never part
To My Hatter. I love you more than you'll ever know.
zebra Aug 2016
on the first date
she confided in me
i have a chromosomal disorder, disorder, disorder
i need love and pain strangely mixed together
my elixirs
i suffer reality distoooorrtions
a ghastly Vatican of ****** compulsions
my soul is black matter
my **** a seething cauldron of despicable desire
my *** cries for homicidal cruelty

mold me into a *******
fold me like a two dollar beach chair
the wrong way
tear me to bits
unwind my intestine
eat me like a blood ******* ghoul
make me squirm like an anime victim

i thought oh finally a soul mate
with soul

strange as a Dionysian mad hatter on hallucinogenics
hot girl creeping
grimacing at me
meandering conjurations by ****** contortions
stunning impersonations of a Fellini impaling
shes a famous artist
keeps broodish bowels and blood tampons in stainless vitrines
spot lighted
ready for her debut at the
Museum of Modern Art

she blows torrents of snot like ****
her beautiful desperate tongue searching the upper lip
a salty runny viscoses snack
oozy
finding it finally with her frenetic tongue
feeding her gooey ****
with wet fingers
oh yummy yum goo
up her *** too

first smiling then hideous scowls
exposed teeth
posing with a knife
wana see me cut my self bad boy, she taunts
wana see my impersonation of pizza with extra tomato sauce

blood blood *** in the be in the bed
wipe it up with ginger bread

some how she miraculously bulges her eyes out
then performs, ******* lips as if a minnow in a fish jar

pointing to her ***
giving me that **** hurt me twisted look
how about a peanut butter jelly ******* sandwich
with a side of ****** feet
**** and **** on toes
its especially prized this day of the month
as her **** tears like a vampires mouth, a torrent of blood
pouting **** with white red stained thighs that break a mans heart
*** nothing at all she quips
just a little accident
do you like it?
as she glares like an invitation
to play slip and slide bare foot in her puddle of blood

oh she made me *****
my cherry red **** having a nervous breakdown
from apoplectic horror gasms
a dose of heavens hell

i want her
she is voluptuous like a dozen venomous snakes
copulating in warm soup dark water everglades
she is slither theater

curdling screams
then muggling *******
brought on by the first belly stab
falling to her knees
looking up shocked
mouth gaping
eyes wide
grinning
glance steady
holding holding holding
the belly cut
a cacophonous modern dance of agony
followed by rapturous convulsing *******
that went on and on and on

get a bat she implored

she is a real ******* movie star
the Greta Garbo of *****
a dark jewel
a must have
a hell wife
goddess of dread
a ******* *** genius
my best girl ever

fused by desire
we kissed like **** loving catholic priests
in adoration of their savior
young boy *** castrato hitting the high notes


she looked up with desperation
eyes with glittering tears
and said
are you my black knight?
do you know how to hurt a girl
are you my
Vex Mallus
Dr Satan
Marquis De Sick
Nick Nick
Dark Officer
Remus the Werewolf
Dom Sugar Daddy
Pit Bull
Tommy the Tummy Gutter
5 o'clock Shadow
London Cabby
Amputee ******
Uncle Surgery Gone Wrong
King of the Carpathian Vampires
my sweet kissy Kitten

ooohh yes i said
i am all that for loves sake
albeit twisted
i am what you crave.. your no taboo lover boy
your ******* licking foot slave with a razor in hand
a bubble of poison between my legs
your homicidal suicidal cockealiciousness

she said good,
now that we have that settled
can we go out for dinner
ill be dressed in a jiffy
if i can find my dead skirt
of soft white gauze
with that lovely motif of dread red
and my precious toe tag jewelery
My poems remain explorations of the subconscious ******
If i where a film maker or a novelist  you  would see me telling a story, not judge me, although i admit to my paraphilias  
These poems  are lunar anamorphic streams of consciousness from the deep chaotic subterranean glitz of transgressive  impulses we all share
Read them if you dare...You might find that part of yourself that you don't want you to know about and then again  you may feel more complete some how if you do....I always loved that dark thing that sleeps with in me
Jasmine Blick May 2012
"Hatter! Hatter"
Alice repeatedly scream
"My dear Hatter why have you left me?"

Confused and scared
Unaware of where she may be
Alice runs down the twisting white halls

Her voice echos
Along with the ticking clocks
Then suddenly.... they stop
She skids to a stop falling to the floor
"Hater, what's happening?
Why have you left me?"

She jumps to her feet and dusts herself off
Looking every which way
Then a noise she hears
Foot steps, running towards dear Alice

Loaded with fear as her body grows suddenly cold
Alice runs the other way
Hoping to get away
The steps get closer as she waits for the ticking clocks

The light of the halls fades to the dark of the night
She sees a large clock to her left
Reading 12 o' clock
Thinking not she runs threw the road
Empty in the night

There's a screech
And a thud as Alice hits the ground
Braden Campbell Mar 2010
He fell down a rabbit hole,
chasing after a crazy dream

He met a rabbit with a waistcoat.
He braved the Red Queen.
He had tea with a caterpillar.
He spoke with talking flowers.

He faced his worst nightmares,
and he lived to tell the tale.

And eventually he crawled back out,
ready to face the world.

But no one believed him.
The more he told,
the more he was scorned.

And he drew farther and farther into himself,
comforting himself with stories and talking flowers,
and a rabbit in a waistcoat.

Soon that was all he had left,
stories and fantasies.

Until one day he plunged back through the rabbit hole,
grasping for a crazy dream.

There he learned the trade of making hats,
but he soon surpassed his masters and peers.

Once again he was scorned,
and he  relocated to an old house with two other outcasts,
making hats and drinking tea to fill his time.

He retreated into himself once again,
this time literally becoming as mad as a hatter,
and this became his title.

And soon no one remembered his true name,
knowing only that was mad,
until his title became his name: the Mad Hatter.

Only one ever tried to know why he was mad,
and her name was Alice.

And in her presence,
he found himself, though still quite mad, less mad.

He even found that he liked it,
though he never let his other mad companions know that.

But she, too, fell back through the rabbit hole,
and he was alone,
with only fantasies and madmen to keep him company.

Until one day many years later he found a woman, wandering,
mumbling about talking flowers and rabbits with waistcoats,
almost as mad as himself.

And her name, he found, was Alice,
and in each other’s presence they found, though they were still quite mad,
they were decidedly less so.

And they found they liked it.
No, I do not own the Mad Hatter or Alice.
db cooper Dec 2014
It was new years day
I remember it like it was yesterday
We had a birthday party for my nephew
Everyone was there and I loved you
I told them all what I would do
I'd ask to marry you
You said yes
I was pleased
But I remember from then on
It was diseased
I loved you
More than you ever me
I couldn't help the jealousy
But that night I caught you
At the Wally Mcgees
That made me absolutely crazy
All I could think about;
Was that **** Beatles song
Where they sat on a cornflake
And pigs ran from a gun
  
I couldn't help what I done
I had to do it,
You were causing me too much pain

But I ended it
My pain I mean
With a knife in her vein
I guess you could say
That I was **Mad Hatter
This is fiction writing.. I have not killed anyone nor do I wear a hat, although I may be a tad mad.
Ann Beaver Jan 2015
Mad hatter runs rampant
through a haze
in a maze.

I take that mad hatter
between my hands:
a knot of never-ending strings
a plain face
without love. without light.
There.
Hold on tight.
Saul Makabim Jun 2012
Mercury drips
from cold fingertips
Into cracked teacups
arrayed on a child's play table
"Where is my Alice?"
Chuckling bends the edge of the silence
Chemical cocktails sprayed
Weaponized aerosols
designed to cloud minds
bring dark knights crashing to their knees
Short sickly man
with a blood red head of hair
Stares oh so sweetly
at his darling sweetie
******* the straight edge
concealed in his pocket
Wonderland gang strikes
devices devised for controlling minds
activated
chips in cowls, linked to size eleven hats
Denigration of children's tales
although Lewis Carrol was a ******* they say
either way there is no avoiding
the madness of the hatter.
murielle lemaire May 2014
coffee.
we meet at starbucks and i can almost pretend nothing changed until i feel the distance in your voice.
i am calm and quiet. i did not expect this
yet here i am sitting in front of you as you explain how you feel (a rarity).
and you and i are alike in more ways than i realized before.

cantalope.
flying through the young night air
i feel alive and free and happy again.
i meet theresa j hanson. dancer, 19, long thin hair and long thin body.
she says she's heard a lot about me and i am surprised and i like her very much (or my first impression anyways) even though you told me that one time that you had *** with her and other girls would probably instinctively hate her. but i can't. she's just so nice and anyways that *** had nothing to do with me.
she gives us cantalope and me ice water.

cigar smoke.
we go out on the little apartament porch and you smoke the cheap cigar, the kind your grandfather smokes. get a red solo cup for the ashes and i found an old ***** butter knife out here. and we sit. and unexpectedly you say can we start over. and im shocked(you've suprisde me so much tonight) but so grateful and of course we can. you blow smoke rings and when you say whooo are youuu i cannot help but think of alice in wonderland and you are the smoking catepillar who asks life's hard questions and am i alice or the queen or the mad hatter or lewis carroll

coming back.
we reinact a a scene as if we just met and i kiss you as if it's the first time and that is how you will remember me and my lips are cold and your mouth is full of smoke and the kiss is fire and ice it's a wonder we did not steam. something so you'll remember me{i will never forget} and i guess we'll figure out on the way.
Pauline Morris Jan 2016
My chest compressed, I can not breath
And everything around me bleeds
Trapped in the rabbit hole
Where no one's supposed to go

I think me and the Mad Hatter will get along splendidly
We climbed into the tea *** boat and sail the crystal sea
And dine upon the walrus hide
We just can not be denied

Oh what fun we had sunning on the shore
All the clams gather round us,we was so adored
Oh look over yonder there is a door

Well Mad Hatter I've got to go but I shall be back
If I have to put that rabbit in a sack
To make him bring me to this wonderful place that I adore
The Mad Hatter looked at me sadly, don't open up that door
Your being silly I won't stay gone long
But something was very wrong

I opened it quickly
And what I saw made me sickly
For behide that forbidden door
In a pool of my own blood I was lying on the floor
How glorious it once was
My Wonderland
Singing flowers, unbirthday parties
And painting roses red
Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee
Laughing, playing jubilantly
White Rose
Beautiful, brave
Shy Violet
Strong, sweet
Hatter
Protective, playful
Gave hope, kindness, love
I grew older
Wonder fading
Until only madness remained
My dormouse hid in his little teapot
My Cheshire cat disappeared
The Queen of Hearts gave misery
Tied in a treacherous bow
The caterpillar tried to transform
Toxic, *****, fear
Beware the Jabberwock, my dear
He wants you for his bed
My love, the Hatter left me
One golden afternoon
Devoid of wonder
Doomed to ache
The White Rabbit came
And took me by the hand
To lead me from my once wondrous Wonderland
You’re late You’re late
Your future will not wait
No time to say “I love you, Goodbye”
You’re late You’re late You’re late
Bad Luck Jun 2014
Cheated and defeated –
                  my mistakes, themselves, repeated . . .
A monster made of gluttony;
                  I’ve no option but to feed it.

I saw the writing on the walls,
           But, my feeble eyes had failed to read it.
Still... I’m not convinced that this warning,
        Was chosen by my eyes, not to be heeded.

Perhaps my head was the catalyst
           A byproduct of an acid trip;
           Had split this world in two.
Some for me, and some for you.
Maybe . . . this warning wasn’t meant for me.
Maybe . . . it’s for the second half of two.

“Ye kind-hearted shall not go forth”
                              … is what I believe it said,
But I can’t be too certain.  
                              After all, I’ve lost my head.
Which brings up some emotions -
                               Or maybe, they’re allusions?
But, I can’t tell through the hallucinations
                If these are real or illusory movements.

So the fish hook pulled me deeper . . .  
                       All the while, stretching skin.

                       I knew not about the rabbit hole
                       to which I just dove in.

It seemed a lot more like an alley when I first took a glance,
Once I took a second step, I guess I chose to dance.

               Oh, what a performance it’s been!  
                And we haven’t yet hit intermission!

                 Although, I’m not sure when that is…
                            As I seem to have lost my vision.

The Queen of Hearts shouted,
                              “Off with his head!”
But without a brain to notice,
      I couldn’t hear what she had said.
She said it before the guillotine dropped…
So was my brain already gone
                      When my head hit the block?

I’m not sure where to find the pieces.
                     I didn't know I fell apart.
                     I didn’t know
I was a headless servant
                    To the heartless
                    Queen of Hearts.

Now, without a head,
                   I’m trying to piece it back together.
And I’m worried that this rabbit hole
           just may have me trapped here forever.

So, I’ll trace my steps backward, to try to find my "forward."
But as I set my pace faster, I find I'm moving slower.
Things turn upside down, when you’re this far down . . .
And the carousel just spins – around and around.

Gaining speed, with increasing malice
I hopped right on
        And chose a different path than Alice.

Here we arrive again at choice, but was it one at all?
This is when I found the Hatter – where the bounds of logic fall.
He asked me why I was there.
             He said, “My boy, have you gone mad?”
And as I searched for reason,
                                          I concluded that I had.

Standing on the ceiling,
            we both watched the world, twirling.
Sipping from our cups,
            between the stirs of sterling.
We chatted over tea, and while I was now content with spinning . . .
My content grew simultaneous
with the Cheshire Cat’s grinning.
He looked at me and said,
                                      “Upside down, yet, you seem alright?”
I responded with a “Hm…”
                                        and my spinning turned to flight.

I flew from the table and
       As I questioned if I was stable,
I grasped for the air.
       And for the first time . . .
                                          I was able.

Apart from the question, I now knew that I was mad,
Because I gripped a fist of air,
                             knowing full-well it can’t be grabbed.
I swung through the air…
                                    maybe I flew . . . I’m not sure.
But as I passed over ground, I surveyed it for Her.
I looked for Alice as my guide,
                              but someone took her place:
The "heartless" Queen of Hearts
                                     and her over-sized face.
Was it the face? Or just the head?
                            What’s ahead without a face?
It seems I lost the bounds of logic
                                    upon my fall from grace.

Was I flying?
Or was I falling?
It seems that orbit was my calling . . .
Where, as high as I fly,
   the paradox of orbit keeps me falling.
Maybe I’ll stay out here, where it’s quiet by the stars
And there’s no signs to read;
               no catalysts for scars.  
But did I ever escape?
                Am I still in the hole?
I found among these fragments
          the completion to my soul.

Somewhere between falling and flying,
              I told the truth while I was lying
And found my equilibrium
               between the living and the dying.
"Bad Luck: In a Wakeful Contradiction" is now available on Amazon in paperback!

Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1691941182
Shayla Jade Oct 2014
My words have just been ramblin',
I left the rhyming state of mind.
The ace of spades is gamblin',
but the rabbit's now on time.

Elevator going down,
catching buses to the sound.
How do I know that I am late?
Time exists in spite of fate.

We're racing, now, against the clock
in circles, 'round the spokes.
I've forgotten how the ticking tocks,
for the gears have been long broke.

Darlin', won't you take my hand?
They're try'na pull you under and
together we can leave this land,
but you must know just where you stand.

-

This shortcut leads to trouble,
but you'll get there on the double.
Bad ideas, I've had a couple;
my shattered thoughts within the rubble.

Broken fragments of my mind,
my fate's aligning just in time.
To the past, I'm disinclined;
looking down an uphill climb.

-

You're sending me a message
about the faithfulness of love;
the white rabbit left me breathless,
I still don't know what you speak of.

"I chose you, please choose me, too?"
I'm running, but I don't know what to.
I've fallen down the rabbit's hole,
into a world without console.
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
Walking and saying
Things our wellbeing
The soul needing love possessions
Have absolutely no meaning

Playing and praying
Overstaying and Under-paying
Rising sun and Symphonic searching

" Is this the way it is?" Tis the season

But the tightness no business like
searching business
  She is combined and mixed like a song
fully lined both with keynotes somehow
we declined
The feeling that you cannot breathe
or  trust both of us
 we can  bearly **** it all in
My music playing just click my belt buckle
Will start to begin

The soul is not a crime or just a rhyme
I barely cannot breathe
I am in a chuckle, you see his
smile raising up his dimple

Ms. Thumbelina cobblestone
narrow-minded street your
in the tightrope symphonic beat

But its dark outside your ringlets
Waved him on got excitedly mesmerized
His Goblet of wine she curls up in
his body heat brilliantly dazzled
The sky to your dreams he is
reaching your
soft side skin
whats actually within
our souls

So  hooked into your ride not to slide
better grades and goals
The awesomeness symphonic hatter
Victorian divineness
Her paper cut out hearts as real
as they come
The Eastside Symphonic tip of his
Heavenly Bliss private Quarters
What becomes of the broken hearted
Heads or dimes not landing on her stone
Floor heart
The Duke of all trades of the hat he's smart

Cool running ******
Addictions to the mind so fanatic
What a good soul sometimes
He overexaggerates about
love and fate darkness drives him demonic
What are you kidding me
She doesn't rest her heart on his
soul for the burning desires of food
for thought
She keeps piling his poems like any sport
He's her everything she learns to be taught

Searching lips pricing
Red bloodshot eyes of crying onions
She is so fierce controlling
Musically like a Tiger roaring
He is like a design of graphics tattoo
The earring piecing the sweetest taboo

More soul searching
She's the snake purse
to his snake eyes fancy,
he took a ride
Upper-false teeth
The upper west side
have some prideThe dark side
became her thing
The wildflower not to stand to
bloom and bang like her band

Westside sounds came deep
his pride and joy like a parade
and wickedly dark his charade

It was  sneaking up on her backside
And the other side was just hiding
and smiling
She definitely saw the light lamp post how
the smells came stronger the darkness of desire
she was famished not to have vanished

Feeling like a *** roast love continued
She had a gift for her lover, not the
toast who would brag to boost
Two ****** British what
divine glasses at a cost
The symphonic soul
captured them like the
Dark-Knight of words
Symphonic sounds came
hearing names
soulful hummingbirds buzz-net

And there weren't any more
words there was silence
Eating shepherds pie table was set

Taking over another soul that's a lie
just like magic searching for a love
so long ago became tragic
You need more perseverance
Her true love gave her
an incredible sixth sense
of deliverance
The top seat at the concert
classical wicked taste of music
candescent erotically sonic

She had this certain quality
He was a symphonic love bounty
Her lips moved so fitting fantastically
The flower shops caught her eye
She couldn't sense what was real or a lie
The fast pace of the people all worked up.
What a soulful smell music sounds
she faintly known

To her ear wanted to hear only him shown

Besides the faintly illuminated
shapes evergreens were
heartily trimmed
She stood out bright as the ground
She was turning gray losing reality
not to be found or heard
So soulful her lips speak
she was walking with her head up
in the air fancy dancey
How those men could speak.
You could smell all the ethnic
flavors of foods
She felt the search for something
of a Saint, she was trying to
hard to be good
What a Haydn, his wife
was the mad hair driving

Miss Daisy soul of hers crazy curled
inside her book
She's the lady-like curler
How he played through her hair
Hunchback of Notre Dame who was to blame?
How his eyes wondered playing
and observing
But she was holding his stare

like a womanizer and his eyes flew
what a haunting moon
But Samatha the harp shady tree
He said, my fair lady,
He's stringing something together

What! creepypasta but sometimes her powers were weak
The symphonic love potent every other week

Some Gothic man symphonic music started
Playing Rossini Opera he could stand on his head.
She was pinned to his eyes
Pinterest such interest
she was all bloomed like a fly

By witches, flower came he passed her and he knew exactly who she was as is but wait not his?
The pleading the beg humbug far from her tunes of the ladybug

Razzamatazz all body of Jazz jitterbug
He winked she-devil
summoned him on
What a binding spell
She wiped the sweat off her face
She was beautiful with pale
porcelain skin
So alluring walking
with her parasol
This is my darkness of a read I hope you enjoy flowers even if they perk you up if they are the darkness stay alive to bloom there will always be a flower like you
One month has passed us.
I know so little about you still
how u think
of me
of life
of now
of later.
I want to show you every part of me,
I still feel that you know too little.
And yet here we sit,
in what might be our first silent treatment.
I don't think I would be mad if it was.
I think I would get it,
agree with it.
Probably.
But this is my poem
thats meant to let you know
that I love you and care,
and that I am going to freak out
when things are pulled a little crazy.
But you matter to me, so it's ok if things get sorta mad hatter once in a while.
Love always,
**S
You know, you can’t really
See what you see,
Hear what you hear,
Taste what you taste,
Or feel what you feel.

You’re relying on lightning
Generated by nerve endings,
Through your spine’s cable
It’s sending
An encoded message:
Translation pending.
At the end of the line,
Your brain picks up the horn,

“What do I do with all this noise?
Perhaps I’ll give it form.
A pleasant odor here,
A river over there,
A rain cloud in the sky,
Maybe something pulls your hair!
Oh what fun it is to gather
All this vibratory chatter
And change it to solid splatter!
Creating a world from pitter patter.
If my trick is found out,
It surely will not matter.
I’m just a human brain,
The universal Mad Hatter!”

While your brain conducts this orchestra,
The real symphony is underneath.
If the world were made of music,
Would you die of disbelief?
Your electricity is unreliable,
Your brain just a go-between.
If you tune your mind and listen,
You can hear Creation sing.
Katelyn Arnold Jan 2014
if, somehow, you could see how high & dense your fortified groves has gotten
you wouldn't be asking me why i'm trying to get to you like a giraffe gets to the
leaves in the trees, because your barrier is like barb wire tangled around your
wrists and, almost like a failed lobotomy, you're as mad as a hatter, and the
ribbons that tied us together tightly unwoven it's knot, and i'm so careful in
finding the pieces of worn bricks to tear down and not break you in the process
the fear left me restless, without a doubt, you get helpless after a while and
start believing that sandpaper and silk are similar, but they aren't textured the
same in reality, yet who even really knows what is wrong and what is right?
maybe the puzzle pieces get worn over time and they're not even considered
to be pieces to a puzzle anymore, it's like putting together a falling apart pie

- kra
Cunning Linguist Dec 2013
Why shan't thou answer to me?
Emburse yourself until wholly submerged in my unholy divergence
Poor form tormented soul
Roll your pain in a j dipped in chloroform
Embrace my urges to purge the remnants of sanity
Spilling and screaming profanities at humanity

Confuddling all posers with my bastardized prose
Please, continue badgering and nagging me
with your buttfucking menagerie of trivial drudgery
I'm in misery go ahead and bludgeon me
Square in the noggin
So I can jog it while juggling nails from my coffin

Cancer-ridden addler babbling mad adages
Scoffing jealous skeptics -
Contort your faces in ghastly panic
As I unleash these dastardly antics
of pandemic proportions
and ******* you

Candid, my penchance enchants
Heavy-handedly inanimate
in suspended animation
Supplant reality augmentation
Machinations of my imagination
Implicating **** ransacking  
and seafaring through crab infestations
Wreaking havoc and bequeathing vengeance
I'm a fire breathing grim reaper reaking of ******

- Off is the nearest direction in which to ****
Dissect my ******* with your tongue
Turnt up ******* plumpies in the ****
Just for the fun of it until I erupt
Remember i'm avid for dismembering appendages
I expect you're exceptional at accepting a barrage of septic bombardment
Chance of success: logistics analysis zero percentage
(Cos I done *******. On those *******.)

Superbly superlative and speculative
So fast on adderal I make Mad Hatter's head spin
Quicker than you can snap
Giving your family heart attacks
Smack you in the face
While fapping my fabulous lap rocket
Thunderously plundering under covers
Springloaded with faux pas' so hot
Make your mother's ***** pop out and say "hello"
like Jack-in-the-Box

& Those foxy grandmas be jaxing off my **** -
Bingo wings beckoning me
More *******; ******* head explodes
Slathered with double entendres
-Staggering!
My passages smooth as laxatives
Brain grinding like acid
Bombastic fat ******* making my **** go flaccid

Valuable, disparaging these **** butts malleable as putty
Barbarically barrel rolling into dat ***
rip it to shreds like confetti
Power Pole extend
Face pressed into your *******
Inhaling the wafting aromatic stenches
of distant French fish factories

Clearly getting dome from your dearly betrothed
Now she bridal and my seeds spiraling virally
Vital signs finalizing
Bounce that *** like jello
Swell; I'm in your hair like gel
Now swallow my jollies and don't bother
Unless you hollerin and giving me dollars
Zealots idol my harlotry

If nose goes go slow grow low
Throwing those yoloing hoes out windows
This ***** simply bonkers
I conquer fear me

***** DON'T HARSH MY MELLOW
SWEAR I'LL MARSH YOUR MALLOWS
Mercurychyld Aug 2014
YOU who insists on negating
my very stories; my personal
memories...
Who are YOU to make ME out
to be demented,
with the wave of your hand, and
the roll of your eyes and
impatient sighs...
just DISMISSING me,
'cause to you...my thoughts,
my feelings NEVER mattered.

I'm just your daughter...
the Mad Hatter!

You never quite believed
that 'he'...your great love..
could violate me...
so hard for you to believe
how lecherous his hands
could really be.

I've heard through grape vines
to this day, you still need
to deny it,
and when confronted with
this truth, your eyes patronize
as, once again, I imply it.

Harsh lessons were learned
very quick and quite well,
as each time I'd follow your
path into hell.
I learned at too young of an age
how this was your drama,
and I...was your stage...
And no one would save me
but ME.
This was just how it would be.

But you taught me well,
how my thoughts or feelings
never did matter,
'cause I was just your daughter...

the Mad Hatter!




-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Ode to my mother...still very much a thorn in my side.
Terry Jordan Nov 2016
The first thinkers were poets
Naming Mother Earth
Beginning symbolic thinking
Of nature, death and birth

Though themes are often repeated
Love, Beauty and God
Poetry in the guise of Religion
A prophet or a fraud

The poet resurrects the Primitive
Through allegory and similes
Disarming the unknown like explorers
Sublime Prophets and Visionaries

They must lay bare those treasured images
That must be expressed
Unraveling and revealing the sounds
At each soul’s behest

Encompassing the entire Cosmos
So lyrical the beat
The poet’s excitement flows outward
Laid at the Reader’s feet

So original, individual
She won’t examine or explain
Letting go the festering feelings
Disturbances in her brain

He exposes his dark, wounded psyche
Just to release and express
Such capacity to see and compare
Hyperbole at its best

I love, I hate, I suffer
A special dance in rhythm and rhyme
The poet as a buffer
Lessening the pain and sting of time

Laden with symbol and feelings
She gives you sweet relief
From something urgent, revealing
Confusion to belief

Through a cinematic kind of seeing
The poet purges to transform
By leaping through Alice’s looking glass
She never was one to conform

Quite intolerant of convention
Just like The Mad Hatter
His passions immune to all logic
In syncopated patter

Jamming up the poet’s mind
Struggling for expression
Seeking order out of chaos
An infantile regression

Cleaving to his imaginary world
The poet breaks out into words
Creating sound paintings to be unfurled
So his own agony is blurred

She succumbs to storms of passion
With instinctive techniques
Rhymes and rhythm still in fashion
Out of hand flows mystique

The poet mines from his unconscious
The Reader is not blind
For every single line and symbol
Means something to the mind

Causing an inner liberation
Enlightenment or flight
It is a matter of life and death
When darkness turns to light.
Been working on this piece for a while; my thoughts on the inner mind of poets.
labyrinths Nov 2013
i.
your teeth chatter and the wind hits your face.
you can no longer feel your hands or legs.
something about frostbite floats around your mind.
and while your head is screaming, go home
your legs are screaming, left, right, left, right.

you remember walking this way from school.
when your sister would pick you up and walk with you.
or when your "best friend" would make you take the long way
so you could walk her home.

you remember trying to climb that tree
to impress a couple of kids
in hopes that you would become friends.
you remember falling
and the shrill laughter of "never never friends"

you remember sitting in that field
and writing poetry
about the dogs that passed.

you remember playing in that park
with a girl you thought
you'd be friends with forever.
you remember sitting on the swings
while your mom talked to other moms
about what it was like to be a mother.
you remember sliding down the slide,
playing in the sand,
and the reluctance to go home.

ii.
you find yourself in His neighborhood.
you still remember the exact way to His house.
how could you not?
you are still smoking.
you imagine the smoke hitting His face.
He would be shocked, if only He could see you now.
what He made you.

you stop by His house.
you remember the path across His house that would lead you to school if you followed it.
you remember the tree next to His house where He poked a wasp's nest.
you remember His backyard, how you would build forts and He would always win.
you remember His living room, blanket forts where you would tease you until you cried.
you remember His mother and her patronizing smile.

there are christmas lights.
you wonder which room is His.
you wonder if His house still looks the same.
you wonder if He remembers what He did to you.

how He touched you
even though you said no.
how He told you that you wanted it
even though you said you didn't.
how He told you that you needed him
even though you knew you didn't.

He is a ghost now, just like the rest of this neighborhood.
and you know if you stay long enough
the ghosts will take it as an open invitation
and come out to play.

iii.
you keep walking.
you put the cigarette out.
you think you're lost until you find a familiar looking building.
you walk towards it.
you realize it's the church across from your elementary school.

ah, elementary school.
remember how they broke you?
remember how they called you names?
remember how you tried to **** yourself?
remember all the friends you didn't have?

you can see the ghosts, now.
the school is filled.
your legs are moving towards it.
you remember the nightmares you had about this exact place last week.
you take pictures.
you try to catch a demon on film.

you have lost all control of your legs.

this is where you told ghost stories about the old lady that lived in the forest behind the school.
this is where you made a pact that you would be friends for life.
this is where that kid told that teacher he was death when he meant to say deaf.
this is where you sat under the playground and laughed so hard you peed.
this is where you showed them the scars on your wrist.
this is where they rolled their eyes and called you "attention seeking".
this is where she told you every lie they'd ever said about you.
this is where you sat when you told them you were going to **** yourself tonight.
this is where you bled and everyone saw.
this is where you broke.

this is where you became who you are today.

iv.
the anxiety is killing you.
you light another cigarette.
you hear voices and a bark.
you make a left.

down the road is the fence you kicked your show over in the second grade.
you wonder if you should thank them for returning your shoe or not.
you don't.

you walk towards her house.
the last time you were here was halloween in grade nine.
you were dressed as the mad hatter.
being chased by some guy dressed as michael myers.
trying to figure out who you really are.

she became someone completely different less than a year later.
she had been telling people she wished your best friend would **** herself.
she got into drugs.
she was always too good for you, anyways.

you want to knock on her door and ask how she's doing.
you wonder if she remembers you.
you don't.

v.
you walk past His best friend's house.
he has bright, shining lights, too.
christmas spirit.

you wonder if he still lives there or not.
you remember the way you went to daycare together.
the three of you.

you were never close with him.
he was into hockey and more attractive girls.
by the time He transferred out of your school, he had no reason to talk to you anymore.
he forgot all about you.

he started dating girls in grade one.
he started cursing in grade five.
he had kissed a girl by grade eight.
she thought she was in love with him.
he had no idea what love meant.

he still plays lacrosse with Him.
he talked to you about Him, sometimes.
he told you how He was doing, how much he hated Him.

at least the two of you had that to talk about.

vi.
you are almost home.
you check your phone.
four missed calls.
three unanswered texts.
where r u?
you turn off your phone and put your hands in your pockets.

you're walking down the same path you would during school.
you remember the way the boy you had a crush on would tease you as you walked home.
he lived on your street.
he would call you names.
you told yourself it was only because he liked you.
he didn't.

the two of you used to be best friends.
you played in the park together.
you had matching walkie talkies.
he came to all your birthday parties
and you went to all of his.

until you weren't cool enough.
and that was that.

you still see him sometimes.
you don't exchange a hello or even a smile.
you act like he doesn't exist.
he does the same for you.

you wonder if he feels as guilty as you do.

vii.
you are home, but you are not alone.
you've returned with your own ghost.
she is whispering in your ear how you have become
everything she would be ashamed of.

she wanted to be a veterinarian.
she wanted to be thin.
she wanted to be pretty.
she wanted to be smart.
she wanted a boyfriend.

you are unemployed.
you are overweight.
you are ugly.
you are dumb.
you have a girlfriend.

she is dead and you are the only one to blame.
because you killed her.
As the arm strikes midnight,
the last of my sanity makes its final descent into oblivion.

Waking the desires of the hatter,
cemented to his crooked, yet fascinating chair.

His eyes gazed upon yours,
before letting out his playful, yet cynical laugh.

"Mhh hm hm hm hm!"
Miss Masque Apr 2010
Can't sleep
These dizzy thoughts
spinning ceaslessly
relentless
in a cup

Half empty,
Half full?

Who knows,
But in the end
the mad hatter will
still wish you had
never been born--
A very Merry Unbirthday to you
to me?

Indeed

Round and Round
they go
mixing colors, textures
emotions, thought
into this smear of humanity

A stain on the background of my mind
as it clicks and whirs and calculates
the options, the weighted possibilities
the electrical impulses zipping past
the smear of confused, muttled anguish

through it, around it,
but the shock cannot
seperate the colors
the textures, the emotions,
the thoughts

The colors melt into grey
various shades of unvarying
reluctant gestures

As the cheshire cat
smiles and laughs like
the cookie crisp mascot
cukoo for coooookie crisp
I hear its laughter

Chuckling madly
at the mad hatter and myself
the mad hatter sipping
out of the cup of grey
as he sings about my unborn nature

Unborn into the world of reality
of sensibility, of responsibility

WAKE UP

I snap back
I look around
and do not recognize
anything at all
Written: December 12, 2009

— The End —