Portrait of Crazy

She is flashing a smile, wide with heckling teeth underneath the almost snarling upper lip.  This is something like beauty queen meets rottweiler, fucks, conceives, gives birth, and abandons said progeny to be raised feral in the favelas of Sao Paolo.  And honestly, after all that, who's smile would seem real?  But its something more...  Her hair puffed up with static (one can only imagine the rogue electro-magnetic waves welling up from that severely broken brain) and Aquanet because she thinks its oh so cool to adopt the disgarded fashion trends of past decades and marry them on her person.  The pile of blonde hair with black (and grey) roots, the bejeweled baggy sweater with shoulder pads circa 1985, and the nerdy Nina Mouskouri glasses sliding down her cartoonishly long and pointed nose are all just symptoms of crazy.  (The hip have a problem in that they are always confusing crazy with cool.)  But it is on the other side of the black rims and bottle thick glass that one goes from wading into the swamp into neck-deep in quicksand with water moccasins licking your nostrils.  Those pupils are big, glowing, pinwheels of black and red and gold.  They have become dilated into mirrors and you see yourself in them.  You see yourself in the cave of her mutant skull.  The madness envelopes you, a labyrinth of bad ideas,  stalactites made of psychology, stalagmites made of religion.  

The teeth in her mouth seem to be growing as well, her saliva leaving deposits of mock sincerity, the process imperceptibly slow.  But YOU can see it in this photo, in this painting, in the scrawled cave paintings you make before dying on the other side of her blank gaze.  Its all so magical (sarcasm dripping off the swarming ceiling), you have gone to become one with the bat shit at the bottom of the waterfall that once ran through this series of caves, a rushing torrent of eroding thunder, that the native peoples called Kre-hay-ze.