Madhouse ~ Bob Kesh

I always manage
to sit next to the mad person on the train.
sometimes I seek ‘em out,
I’ll see something,
a twitch,
a glint in the eye,
a muffled cry,
and I’ll know.
slouching with them’s more interesting
than parking among the
with nothing in their eyes,
nothing on their minds worth any
kind of life.
but sometimes I follow those others,
the workers,
the consumers,
wanting to be left alone,
nothing interfering with my world,
me as a separate entity,
put the blinkers on and
close my eyes to the world.
even then I end
up among the mad.

the mad and unpredictable,
breaking into song
or dance,
or suddenly lashing out at the world,
arms and legs punching at
its horror,
its injustice,
its lies,
trying to kill the
suffocating for the factories,
the offices,
the banks with clean windows
and pictures of happy families,
and finding nothing but air.
watching him
struggling against it all,
I feel as if I’m watching myself,
his face frozen knowing
something terrible’s
happening to him,
his eyes smothered in tears,
unable to cry,
his throat trying to exhale a
last wail,
the chimneys pumping fumes through
his windows,
the office walls closing in around me,
the tie tightening
around my neck.
this carriage is a madhouse.
the malls and offices madhouses,
the world’s a madhouse.
we’re all in this carriage
riding towards senseless obsoletion,
we’ll always ride this train
it’s a madhouse.



A writer and musician from London currently studying at the Faber Academy. Generally nocturnal, he can be found indulging in all the pleasures and pains of the night.

Contact him at bobkesh @ hotmail . co .uk (with no spaces)

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