I flirted with madness
I smiled at madness
I teased madness
I then became mad with madness.

I blew a kiss to madness
I offered a dance to madness.
I whispered a secret to madness.
I then became bad with madness.

I questioned madness.
I wrote a letter to madness.
I cried over madness.
I then became bold with madness.

Mad men might masticate morsels mostly meant for the myriads
just as
intoxicated women fall and scatter like windswept leaves
rainbow like in their garbs that secretly they wish they’d never put on.

But I call to them, yes, I call to them

And all the while in the village of the Samburo,
Children suckle on the teats of goats
As their mothers haul their legs to the air
Whilst the men slit the veins of the cows
That they’ll drink like the men of the west qwaff their whisky.

I miss the madness
But I miss the madness
I dream of madness
But I miss dreaming the madness
And I’m now becoming the madness.