The Fruits Of Lunacy Poem by Rene Diedrich

 

Slender questions gnaw at me

during deep, dog dreams 

conceived in a tapestry of wilderness.

I exorcise my astral demons

with Sangria, the drink of oblivion.

I smoke thin, fragrant cigarettes;

I pop over-the-counter pills.

Weed makes me witchy, 

my eyes on a tilt-a-whirl; 
wine 
makes me wanton, 
a woman,  
not a girl.

Madness is a novel concept, 

embraced with illicit packets

like the ones Carmen Miranda hid 
in her platform shoes...

How else could she dance 
with that hat on her head

and smile at Caesar Romero, too?