"Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead."
Charles Bukowski
I don't know why I care so much about poetry as I do. It's not like I'll ever make any money writing avant garde verses and deconstructed stanzas, thumbing my nose at conventional pentameter, attempting to make relevant a form of writing usually predisposed as masturbatory fodder for dickless academics, pissed upon romantics, cerebrally engorged ganja huffing losers, weepy eyed bisexually curious terminally angry art school dropouts and your seriously uncool grandma.
Still, I can't turn away or leave the damn stuff alone. It's like swiss chocolate dipped in cocaine and surreptitiously drizzled over Angelina Jolie's breasts. I just can't help myself but to seek out, uncover, become immersed, feast and devour with reckless abandon.
I suppose it's because I have no choice. Like Son House wailing the blues across the Mississippi Delta between beatings, like Anais Nin screaming while miscarrying before her heartless midwife or like the time I felt my small family on the verge of fracture and I heard 'The Desiderata' for the first time and it saved my 8 year old life. Or when I read the writings of Harry Crews and Arthur Rimbaud and I learned how to properly stand up and say 'Fuck You' with the eloquence of Shakespeare and the resolve of iron. Or when I first gazed upon the Mona Lisa and Guernica and my eyes beheld poetry distilled into visual ambrosia. Or the first time I smoked a huge spliff on a long road trip and heard Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony. I slowly came to realize that it's all poetry that surrounds us. From the laughter of children to the sighs and moans following orgasm.
We sing because we suffer, because we revel, because we are alive and we can, because we must, because without this...
"the whole shithouse goes up in flames."
Jim Morrison
When Leonardo sat on the hill
dreaming of flight
filling his sketch books
with wing movements
aerodynamic assumptions
probability theories
devoid of disaster
is when Picasso
crash landed his pigments
into my retina
blinding me to stoic grid works
filling with deconstructed kaleidoscopes
thrown hell all to the wind
is when Mozart exploded
into my aorta
seizing from me breath
absconding with wings
I had earmarked
to traverse mediocrity
They poised me on a precarious ledge
and sneezed
orchestrating my disintegration
abstracting my skull
on the sidewalk below
preventing all else
that dared encroach
upon the unpoisioned realm
of my infant perception
I became Galarina
and made love
to Salvador Dali
upon a soft timeless canvas
I kissed Michelangelo good night
After caressing his tortured spine
blessing him with olive oil
and the 91st psalm
easing his painful writhing
derived from exhausting sessions
depicting ascensions of cherubim
leaving him spent
to dream of his next revelation
to be rendered
across fresco skies
of the Sistine chapel
Painting our fingertips
so close to the divine
across the divide
the mural disintegrating
into dust of the stars
perfuming the heavens
with song
A labyrinth of freedom unfolded
as Jackson Pollack danced
spilling his whiskey
in the most exquisite splattering
ever commissioned by God
Let’s all drink blessed wine
until sunrise
painting refractions
of purple, gold and pink
across the ink washed indigo horizon
staring wide eyed
into the rising orb
as our Nirvanas collide
we satyrs and angels
applauding the coming of new dawn
and celebrating death
of the old decrepit sciences
meditating with reverence
in anticipation
of the impending
explosion
I take great joy in writing.
Thank you for reading.
All my love always,
Max
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