...in a desert of boredom. Or ennui.
The words flutter like a salacious invitation.
Foaming at the mouth, inappropriate in public,
Baudelaire on drugs.
 
A reading, by a poet,
so sick with intoxication that the poems
are stained a dark green, an ulcerous red,
a bloodclot,
bleeding heart,
and madness is romanticized
but is actually certifiably
felt, experienced,
as a sickness
with the body shaking
to the core, to the cold sweat
shivers on the tinges of the skin.
Sick epidermis, unreliable,
sick on the inside too.
 
Madness as a sickness, literal
physical sickness,
hands over the mouth
fighting the dread nausea
in a public bathroom
in a foreign park
in a foreign place,
and no one to care about you.
 
Madness as a disease, physical,
screaming incomprehensibly
in a language that’s inhuman,
screaming at its own screaming,
vulgar and meaningless.
Guilt by association, child-like
death defying hopelessness
marred by the blunt force
of self-declarative
and self-self
futility.
 
Define incoherent
for the mad voyagers of our age,
those who have left homes desolate
and their minds incompetent.
 
Define it Baudelaire,
I dare you

Inspired by the poem "Le Voyage" by Charles Baudelaire and the novel "2666" by Roberto Bolano, from which I came to know the Oasis of Horror line

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