Wright's Writing

                              Madness

 

The young man sitting on his once-white

bedsheets which were now as almost-brown

as three-day-old slush in the gutter in the street

clung to his computer like he was still in the

womb floating with his stubby hands pressed

tightly against his tumid head because there was

outside a certain malformed beast called reality

which screamed like nails scraped down

a wall of glass leaving long white cuts shrilly

at him to come and join the crowd before it died.