their world, in their words.

Mad, mad, mad.

It's all mad.

The weather is mad.

One minute it shrieks in fury and sweeps across the sky.

The next minute it is still and watching. Glowering.

There is a mad noise inside my head.

A grey noise.

A fey noise.

A sound that isn't a sound, but it's taking up the space.

It's eating up the space with its greyness, and leaving everything muddled up inside.

And the people outside are all mad.

They are charging up and down the road with

Applications, supplications,

Held like battering-rams.

They are massing in crowds on the street

Massing like flies in grey-black circles

Sullenly threatening,

Buzzing about nothing

Under the hot sun,

Under the trickling, prickling hot.

And I am here,

Watching them from the barred window

And I am angry at them and angry for them.

My mind twitching, buzzing,

and I want to sweep this angering clutter away

Sweep it off the table to bash, crash, smash it.

I wanted to, before the buzzing, their buzzing

Grew louder and grew

Out of a drone and into a hum,

And fashionably crossed arms

And leaning to one side with straight black hair hanging,

And the mouths forming words and the circles forming lines,

And glazed eyes fading into bright.

And then I just cared nothing for them,

And did nothing.

Who is mad here ? Me ? Them ?

Who knows ?

Who cares ?