"Mad as a March Hare,"; they say of me.
But all I have is a rabbit, a white white rabbit,
hoppity rabbit, bloody little rabbit,
claret and garnet, I could eat him and wear him,
rings around my fingers and bloody rings around my mouth.
I could ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross.
But there are no paths in this mad forest
just a bloated cat whose face floats like a moon but sheds no light.
The only luminosity is the blood on my skin.
I was once so pale, virginal and void
until he touched me maddened by mercury,
silvery beads, pewter rain.
Is that why I am so confused, his grubby fingers and white white paws?
But I can't say anything, little tattletales burn.
If I tried to speak my tongue would split,
my eyes would fossilized, hard as turtle shells.
"Drink me"; the bottle said, bitter taste, raw almonds.
But it promised oblivion from my mad hatter father,
black felt around my ankles, my wrists and my neck.
The old ghost story, untie the black choker,
then a flinch then a splatter as her head drops off.
I wish mine would. Now that would be oblivion.
Ride a horse to Banbury Cross but what do you do then?
And wouldn't there be wolves who think,
they all ride to Banbury Cross.
with their hoods of red fur, riddles and ravens.
I wouldn't be pure enough for a woodsman to save.