My wild ambition loves to slide - ye all must understand
But fortune's ice prefers only the most virtuous of hand.
In Malaga I grew weary and wanton to possess
The most colorless canvas, one easy with a lazy happiness,
Disdained by golden fruit to the viewer be
As I passed the crowd to gently shake the tree.
Now manifest in paint, inward contrived and long since
I stood in bold defiance with the heart of a prince,
Held up on the square by one wanting to buy my latest cause.
Against the wind I held it up in spite of all the laws.
Do they wish to thicken my lot among all their other mistakes?
What circumstances find you this? -This is what my mind makes!
The buzzing of my emissaries fill my ears
With many solitary jealousies and fears,
Arbitrary thoughts brought forward into the light,
Contemplating existence, must it prove my vision right?
Weak are the arguments! Which the true artist knows full well,
Where weak minded people curse my renderings or are easy to rebel.
For am I not governed by the moon and by the far off stars?
Tread lightly on me and don’t put me behind your own bars.
And once in a shard of time let the Annunaki’s scribe record,
That my vision once rendered could somehow affect their lord.
The unrecognized Enki still wants to be a chief, yet none
He created was found as fit as barren Adam.
Not that he wished his greatness to create,
For leaders should wish not to be called great.
But he like I know our titles are not to be allowed.
For titles are useless and only dependent upon a crowd,
Those are kingly powers, thus ebbing us out, they might be
Drawn by the dregs of a falsely acclaimed democracy.
But in my paint I attempt, with studied arts to ease,
And shed the unholy venom with visions such as these.
On the other side of the canvas, not much escapes my eye –
But once in front of it – nothing escapes the me that I call I.

In Barcelona,
at the Picasso Museum, Jay-Z is here,
zoning on a piece from the 60’s, rocking back and forth,
rocking a black Rocnation hat, with a white circular starred shirt,
and I’m here too writing this poetic verse...

from The HH Trilogy Vol. 2: Nightmares & Daydreams
available worldwide on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07141ZNW6

Jacqueline,

your bottomless black eyes draw me in,
as I draw these lines with black pen,
which form emotionally immaculate translations,
that describe th way those bottomless black eyes draw me in,

Jacqueline,

I’m unraveling as I’m travelin’,
into the infinite of your obsidian eyes,
and I’m writing frantically to try and describe,
everything you are that makes me feel alive,

I,

a legendary writer,
who’s legend has just begun,
attempting to describe,
the indescribable I know it’s difficult but it can be done,

I am spun,
out in the your orbit or rather the orbit of your bottomless black eyes,
and that’s okay,
because we are far from the prying public’s eye,

and of course the course of the public can be an ugly subject,
because there is no passably pretty way to dress up hideous lies,

but we find refuge in these words which find refuge in those eyes,
here we have our own world one not subject to the public and their lies,
we’re in private and I’m dying and at the same time feeling thoroughly alive,
dancing the tantric dance of the divine the white hot light and those black cold eyes,

those black eyes,
draw me in,
Jacqueline,
it is only to such a beautiful muse such as you that I write,

lines upon lines,
I describe everything you are that makes me feel alive as one,
and at the same time this poem pushes ahead to completion,
all of our pre-existing inhibitions begin to become undone,

like bra straps and boot straps,
take your shoes of at the door,
let it all go we are each other’s inspiration,
when we are together we want for nothing more,

we are alone here,
we are together here,
we are allowed to be us here,
here fear is not a four letter word,

we are whatever we want to be now,
we have found ourselves lost,
me in your bottomless black eyes,
and you in all of these hopefully worthy words,

I’ve heard,
that there’s no time like the present,
so let us be here now without resentment,
if you’ll be my moon I’ll be your crescent,

we are all blessings both learning and lessons,

let your hair down,
open your eyes up,
I am inspired again,
Jacqueline Jacqueline,
in,
to,
those bottomless black eyes I begin to spin,

drifting off to never land,
never wanting to come back to their reality again,
so please if I may ask as a friend,
one last kiss before forever begins,

one last look at unfiltered inspiration,
I’m a chosen one that chose you as my muse for some reason,
unbeknownst to none everyone understands the attraction of a beautiful woman,
so please before I go and forever begins be a friend and grant me one last moment,

open your eyes again,

allow me to get lost in your pupils,
I’m your pupil I’m your student I’m your lesson,
so one last time before forever begins,
please open your eyes so I can get lost and find inspiration again,

as we begin to drift off into never land and forever begins to begin…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

Las Meninas

Dementia makes a great creator,
sacrifice your sanity for the greater splendor,
it’s interesting how insanity makes a great inventor,
all the greatest were/are/will be crazy now and forever,

just ask this to Francis Ford Coppola the director,
or bat ****t (no disrespect but pun intended) Christian bale the actor,
or Vincent van Gogh who cut his ear off all creative geniuses are tortured,
so I suppose Picasso's no different in his portraits of torment as a painter,

what a mad medium the Expressive Arts are,
as if every artistic creation is it’s own emotional provocateur,
a window to the soul of a lunatic lit by the light of the moon,
and shown through the manifestation of a painting in living color,

abstract dualities uncovered,
a crack in the cement of our foundation,
the wooden frame of our reality begins to splinter,
like window panes in the winter open to interpretation,

ascending,
up a spiral staircase into the attic of an artistic addicts mind,
find some time then misplace it,
then replace it with a twist of fate and sprig of thyme,

face it fate is what we face when we're outta excuses and out of time,

I’m,

writing words,
like oil painted on canvas,
in a race no one wins,
even those with the most advantage,

brush strokes,
art works,
we are all tainted,
just look,
at Picasso,
and all the pain he painted,

this is the ballad of the obscene lick the palette clean and get wasted,

drunk in love,
under the influence of,
colors of pastels and multi tones,
high off life,
we’ve got a show tonight,
but for now I write in verbose undertones,

at the Picasso Museum in Barcelona,
in an insane world only crazy love seems sensible,
with Jay and Beyonce they say the circles get smaller you go,
and we’re at the top of the pyramid circle so small it’s a point at the pinnacle,

paining portraits in our own ways,
some sing some dance some actually paint,
and I’m not the Devil that that accuse me of being,
but I’m also not exactly a patron saint,

paint,
a portrait of this torture,
name,
it ‘Maids of Honor',

create,
an entire series of misery and maybe it will be your zenith,
make,
Hell as beautiful as Heaven & then when it’s finished call it Las Meninas,

then release it all and they will call you a gothic prophet an artistic genius,

love the art,
but not the artist,
love the hate,
but not the haters,
love heart,
but not what it harbors,
love the work,
but not the workers,

people love,
what they’re told to love,
like people love Picasso,
because that’s what they’re told,

rarely is greatness recognized,
while the artist is still alive,
no one wants to take the time,
to truly appreciate and recognize,

and speaking of time I know I’m late,
but better late and I apologize for my lateness,
but a true creative type can’t be rushed or hushed,
so please if you want to receive you must have that virtue called patience,

life is the canvas passions the paint it’s time for action let us paint this…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆