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
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.