the bleary-eyed and lost in thought with yellowed fingers, worn and long from stretching chords and picking nails I live only with the maddest ones those whose words need breaking down like prose discarded, written late with hair unclean from fingertips I love those who aren't afraid to hate the ones whose eyes hide darker thoughts than you could ever bear to think the ones who fight them constantly and often lose, and turn to drink those who are an inch away from those who yell out in the throng or on your bus in fetid rags I love them here where we belong you may have fallen once as well for one such mad one, fond of art and if so you'll know too well how efficiently they break your heart so leave me all, to stew and sit sleepless here where I belong in the wake of those I love here with all the maddest ones
They, Keaton Henson











