There is a close intersection between the arts and the mind, between creativity and madness. The following poem fuses the world of the musician with that of the psychiatrically disturbed. Draw your own conclusions.
Where thalamic clavichords have
Keys uncountable, only spidery hands
Can finger major, minor – a third
From joy to blue, a fifth from rose
to sky. A single hydrogen may
hold the right key down, a methyl –
turn the night sky green. Once,
ham-fisted phenothiazines slammed
out cacophonies like diskinetic
drunks at a karaoke bar, thick fingers
beating joy with pain. Now
nanobot Perahias slip blood/brain
fences unescorted, pump serotonin
yo-yos between synaptic paddles
until a side-man flips a switch,
sends voltages to keyboards and mixers
down the line. Pure frequencies.
For the music, details we needn’t know.
David T. Manning