The imbecile is at work in world busy about its activities
Giving opinions, acting without thought, 
Obdurate in pursuit of gimcrack distractions
and automatic as machine.
The imbecile stews in soups of inactivity
Natural as wind,  bubbling to the surface
tireless banalities
The imbecile passes through unnoticed 
Like the quotidian affairs of your neighbor.
The one you never knew.

What can be said of the lunatic?
It has been caged, drugged and beaten
Disavowed in prayer and confession
Driven into homeless oblivion 
Domesticated as a dog by breeding
Its violent aggression now submissive
Its passions forced into hiding.
The lunatic is a threat 
Born wholly from dissatisfaction of
Living between the bile and the ideal.
Despondent from suffering,
Raging against all, screaming fitfully against
the order of things from instinct alone.

The lunatic cannot reason and the imbecile doesn’t care.
Give me the lunatic and I will take it as my friend
For I can see that it is fully awake and all it has suffered
But the imbecile is without awareness or conscience
Left to work in the world it brings misery
Because it notices nothing and cares only for the next 
Bring me the lunatics
They are my brothers and sisters
They are art, crying for expression.

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