The Mad Showcase

Well, I’m just a misfit, a bug of media,

and I always idly surf the Wikipedia.

The lights of mayhem are slowly winking

while I quite silently sing an Ode to Thinking.

Modernists laugh at your way of thinking

and it matters not if your heart is sinking

Oh! where has Brecht gone, or Weber for that matter;

love and life are both great, but I’d prefer the latter


Ah how blue it’s to play the jack, how really dull

and all the while into foolishness we delve.

The path isn’t straight, the king has become a tool –

just like a ruler, only one used to draw a curve.

Jack is a Marxist, and there’s the Nazzi Jake,

See what a difference an E can really make!

Philosophies in showcases, ideologies everywhere;

and nobody can really tell the latter from the former.

And given all the choices that I’ve had to make,

there’s no one easy path that I’d wanna take.

But there’s still hope – ain’t there always? –

and I’ll put off choosing, for minutes, hours, and days.


You can choose to serve, or you can choose to rule;

And when all the paths so wildly swerve,

I don’t know if I can be anything less,

but I’ll just be a ruler who only wants to serve.

Do take a picture, and over it paint

a stricken heart, covered with a reddish taint

then carefully put the heart in the open chest

of a nightingale who has never left the nest.

This is no feint, and no truth either, but bring it anyway,

that pure madness with which all the world will sway.

I feel stretched in this lonely show, unstitched at the seams

and in this global zoo, I have left behind all the dreams.


I lay aside all my doubts, and clear my conscience,

and with a tired glance, I gather my nerve,

to ask the universe where it all went wrong, and maybe when?

But then I look around, and the questions … I shelve.

Eccentricities of an Exotic Soul

To live, is my dream, my one and only wish,

but alas, that dream the world won’t furnish.

I live, not as lively as I’d ever would;

and I’m starting to wonder if I ever could.

I just want to open my wings and fly to the sky,

escape this madhouse, the lonely, misfit I.

I want to be exotic, without being told how,

I’d want to be anything but me, even a crow.

I want to sing, and I want to dance, and I want to run

across the fields of golden wheat, and on and on …

I want to be, as no one has ever been.

I want to dream of a land so green …

I want to cry, with my head held high,

and over the winds to whisper a sigh.

Eccentricities of an exotic soul,

too low for a dream, too high for a goal.

My past in one hand, my future in the other,

and with neither should I ever again bother,

so long as I can foresee the present

and look at myself and foretell what I’ve spent.

I just hope that for this madness I’ve not overpaid

though too grievous were what aside I’ve laid …

Under the crescent moon to God I prayed,

and by all the rules I carefully played,

lest it all becomes nothing, all this that I did,

and all my belongings I lovingly hid,

in the darkest corner of all there is.

But the wicked winds would never cease.

And I discovered that I had to plow

ahead and ahead, even as a crow …

Oh … all those things I so wanted, all those dreams …

And I’ve finally become unstitched at the seems …

To live, is my dream, my one and only wish,

but alas, that dream the world won’t furnish.