Poetry by Edward ian Armchair

The Armchair Guide to Insanity

Edward ian Armchair

This lack of light as papers lie upon the floor,
a moth flies its blind course, searching for a lost heart to eat.
A dog lies there dreaming.

The armchair talks as Mr. Sheen caresses it’s surface,
the cushions once sat on by an aimless crowd,
their creases to be ironed and removed.

The wallpaper shudders as the shadows reflect.
The radio provides a background sound,
as the outside silence completely surrounds.

As you lie in bed dreaming of others,
Edward ian Armchair your Mother caresses her creased mates’ head,
he snores and groans and becomes a mystery star

But a living room squalor is noticed,
as mislaid clothes lie awaiting wear.
Coat hangers live unused lives.

Why do armchairs talk when no on listens?
Why are artificial flowers no longer plastic,
but silk and soft and real?

A melody resounds, an ear is pierced,
cushions crumble as the earth quakes.
A product of pills? But who really knows?

The air is smoke, the breath is choked,
as the heart of a young girl,
beats for the love of her mate.

Edward ian Armchair

Three a.m. as problems appear,
a suicide case slashes his wrists,
his wristband laughs and he cries all night.

A stomach rumbles for no one’s sake,
then it laughs at me behind my back,
with soft skin and the odour of soap.

Like the drunken fool who falls in a doorway,
and a mobile swine arrives to catch.
Do we love these thoughts?

Virginity is rife, as lovers fight,
a memory is split, blood spills.
A poor heart cries it’s beat for no one’s sake.

A mental defect arises,
as the lids of your eyes fall short of sleep.
The comfort of a bed awaits your head.

Lovers entwined knife each other.
Everyone dies,
but it is only my heart that stops.

Edward says...

Edward ian Armchair This was written in my Mum and Dad's house at about midnight. I lived up the road in a council flat and on the way home I'd pass their house and usually drop in to pinch a couple of cigarettes. I'd also pinch a handful of my Dad's prescription drugs for later use. This evening I decided to take them there and then, taking about a dozen. I sat down, deep in thought, with nothing but that strange buzzing sound you can sometimes hear in the air for company. Feeling a sense of inspiration coming on I ripped a page out of an old diary from 1969 I found lying around and started to write. The whole of the entire "Armchair Guide to Insanity" came out in one go, word after word, line after line, verse after verse. I can vividly remember to this day why each line followed the previous one and every line is a line of truth, be it what I was seeing or what I was thinking through a drug-induced haze. Edward
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