WhoEVER’s putting me through this, I have a RIGHT to be mad

When I say mad (Am. Eng.),

I do of course mean angry (Br. Eng.).

Although some of you may feel

I should accept I am mad (Br. Eng.).

But the truth of it is,

As these pages now bear clear witness to,

That mad as in angry –

After all of the shite

That high as a kite someone’s gone and flown my way –

I have every right to be.

So when you come to these pages

And accuse me of tremendous indiscretion,

Listen first to my story:

Because every word and sound and image

Is as true and as quivered fine,

As unsheathed as each could ever be.

I don’t make a habit

Of telling lies:

Not even – hardly ever! – the lies of art

That –

In their inexactitudes –

Even so, tell real truths:

Grandly and finely

Soul- and heartfelt.

Mad then (as in dear Am. Eng.)

I reserve the right to be:

Angry then (as in dear Br. Eng.)

You begin to see I express.

And if no more nor less

Than righteous honest I do profess,

At least before yous email me once more

Do remind yourselves this:

A kiss is an expression of love,

Where good hearts do lie.

But where the horrid choose to fake

It’s more than a mistake.

Where the horrid choose to see dark all around 

In good person –

Quite correct and quite present;

Good person so very true;

Good person like you and me once used to be –

Is when that person finally realises

Anger, the mad, that tad of real blue,

Is the only solution to that chemical inaction, 

That passivity of aggressive:

That fearsomely resistant litmus of hidden rest

Which has pursued me now 

As crazy test

For longer than any life should bear.

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