10-09-2011, 05:56 AM
I lost my taste for beauty when the sun sank behind my skull
and all words became a useless striving for purpose
no one could understand or achieve, let alone me, let alone you
chiding me for my lack of vision as you pin your eyes to a bathing landscape,
a line by John Keats, like a puppy digging up the beach for a bone
it vaguely remembers possibly burying there five years ago.
I am bored of art and want to burn it all. Van Gogh was just another loon
no deeper than Mary the schizophrenic I once saw in a madhouse screaming
rape at the male nurses. Shakespeare's plays are useless as a golden wheelbarrow
in a world where gold is worth less than tin. I hate the way a painter flicks
his brush when painting a spine, I loathe the rows of hardback books
on library shelves. I even despise this poem I'm writing for you now.
and all words became a useless striving for purpose
no one could understand or achieve, let alone me, let alone you
chiding me for my lack of vision as you pin your eyes to a bathing landscape,
a line by John Keats, like a puppy digging up the beach for a bone
it vaguely remembers possibly burying there five years ago.
I am bored of art and want to burn it all. Van Gogh was just another loon
no deeper than Mary the schizophrenic I once saw in a madhouse screaming
rape at the male nurses. Shakespeare's plays are useless as a golden wheelbarrow
in a world where gold is worth less than tin. I hate the way a painter flicks
his brush when painting a spine, I loathe the rows of hardback books
on library shelves. I even despise this poem I'm writing for you now.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe