The poem was waiting,
simmering gently beneath work deadlines
and plans for the weekend.
Lurking way back beneath the bones and simple things,
waiting for the moment,
the right moment to present itself.
At which point
it falls awkwardly into my mind,
an assorted array of images
feelings translated and pictures of head stuff.
Flashes of
wording with no obvious order or arrangement-
a bowl of big flakes,
to be squeezed from my weeping fingertips,
smeared to a page
and given a title-
‘The poem.’
Mad new world 
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“Flashes of
wording with no obvious order or arrangement”
When uncontrolled, isn’t this what madness is? Or, at least, one kind of madness…
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One kind of madness, or just the mindscape, the mindsense..? The place where reason bows to spirit and there is no up or down… 🙂
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But the worlds of the spirit are a place where the reality is that there is no up nor down, time goes backwards and reason has nothing to stand on…
This is why it is essential to grasp the fundamentals of what it is we do when we think.
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