and like dante i’d write the geometric of heaven
likened to his hell,
although instead of the ix roundabouts
i’d write of the x winding paths,
harry potter en route 9 & 3/4
buddha between motorway 4.5 and 5.5
and jesus on the crossroads junction between 2.9 and 3.1.
of course i slow down sometimes, i figure,
write a boorish poem dependent on sloth,
write a prosaic poem in vain hope of mirroring equal speed
of the reader,
never write: poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world...
instead write: poets mediate all mediums of art the easiest,
and sometimes do more than the ostriches could
and attack philosophy.
but then there’s this memory i have of myself
sitting in a room with rodin’s kiss marble statue at tate modern,
sketching the statue from all the vivaldi angles,
just before the statue was given an s & m makeover
by cornelia parker, wrapping the statue in the next best thing
to leather gimp masks... petrifying sexuality like
that can scar the hardest metallurgy product, including my eyes,
the ******* rope will not make the hellish couple cling tighter...
but a mantis or a black widow overshadowing the couple
probably would to make the male petrified to stick to
providing for high heels handbags and feminism;
i know the modern word rope = ***** in pink,
but come on... the contortions are not even exfoliating under
the ropes...
i guess i never learnt the art of “pure” and “animalistic”
expression everyone is into... verbiage and all kinds of vegetables
for me it would seem...
moving in between different art forms with an eel slippery ease...
giving due admiration for composer, visualizer, synchroniser,
post stamp / card artist, metal techno indie rapper, busker
and prose exerciser - it’s not that we leave our footmarks
almost idly, almost too infrequently, almost too lightly,
it’s because we are changing lanes on the motorway of sounds & colours,
while people like tolstoy and stephen king are stuck in
the traffic of prose, while people like beethoven and mozart
are stuck in the traffic of music -
but never you mind that quote from picasso...
that quote: all children are artists; the problem is how to remain
an artist once you grow up...
well... there’s an answer to that... retain a childish element
in your art... like picasso did in his work although womanising like
a strong alpha gorilla balancing both testicles in the abyss
of the crotch and a coconut on its head...
perfect cubes with triangles and squares on rectangular canvases...
or start talking like salvador d. about the paranoid expression
using sniffs of ammoniac substances to remember the stench of cows’ **** in the surreal.