Love according to Plato
Love is this marvelous circle
With stars running along its periphery.
Cubes or squares in its corners,
And triangular shaped heptagons
Running from diamond to diamond.
The radius is made of pyramids,
While pentagons its diameter.
Slanted quadrilaterals make up
The surface of its digonic nature,
As the outskirts of the first floor
Are filled with lunar ellipses
And Salinonian crescents –
Against a backdrop of floweresque
Deltoids and asteroids.
Its most recent developments shine
Between the trapeziums and rhomboids
Of the tomahawks that form
The before-mentioned diamonds,
Left of the peripheral centre –
The local yet oh, so equilateral
To the right are extended the obtuse
Tetrachords, while the second,
Third and seventh floor of its
Nonagonal chambers are lit by
The hexagrammoid complexity of
Sir Arbelos and Madam Circumcircle.
All in all, and keeping in mind
Madam Circumcircle’s stepsisters
Bankoff and Nine-point, love can
Be summarized in one word
As (deltoidally) hexecontahedronic.
Although one ought to
Remember the infinity,
Inscrutability of its nature as such.
Love according to Plato
Leave a comment | tags: adoration, arithmetics, art, artist, athens, bildensturm, cupid, forms, genius, geometry, iconoclasm, karfield, love, mad, mathematics, philosophy, plato, socrates | posted in Poetry
Just my monastery
In Rome I’m reminded of
Your sheet, how it skips a beat
As I wander through your lonely heart.
Your last home reminds us of
The needlessly neat
Death you wanted to do apart.
Horror came to taunt you,
Climbing up and down those stairs;
There you must have crumbled
Under circumstances hard to bear.
What’s heard in there is all despair,
I sat down next to you to talk.
We mashed together centuries,
Ended in piece, and on we walked.
We mashed together eras like
There was no tomorrow for you and me,
As we sat there, in your stairway,
Before I had to leave.
John, your chaos theory
Leaves me weary. Order
You taught me to give up,
In order to adore adorned little hick-ups.
Stick-up kids in the middle of a rhyme,
Chasing after your paper,
iPhone, condoms, and dimes.
Mashed potatoes on a plate full of fries –
That’s two kinds of tater,
With a gravy surprise.
But all this mashing,
This mixing what shouldn’t be mixed,
This going against the current of mist,
Is leaving me tired, expired, and whipped.
And sometimes I need to aspire
A whiff of words that will get people higher.
Not just confused or annoyed,
Flabbergasted and acid,
But moved and grooved,
Somewhat intrigued and inspired.
If I may, I will tell them
About this talk we had together.
The weather outside,
The songs we shared.
Songs of tuberculosis,
The breastplate of Moses,
And the seven candlesticks
John saw in heaven.
Eleven more levels of Maslow’s steps,
And my spirit, you say, will disperse.
And to know that if I am an angel, at best,
To my body will happen the worst.
I assure you, however, I am no such thing,
That my blue hair is misleading.
Still, you ask me to be ever so careful,
And put down the books that I’m reading.
They were of songs about you…
And on we walked.
Dark and twisted
Like your past.
Yet some secrets within.
Your visual rhythm
Pounds the drums of my ears.
Homage to the master
Of universal mind.
On the edge of darkness.
Divine light cutting
Right through our
Shortened little brains.
And there you pave
The way for modernistic
Adorers of the future.
Squint your eyes
Back and forth,
Abstract me some figures.
On the walls of God.
Your venture as ironic
As Job’s return
What will happen
If the Gods learn
Of your devious ways,
Your devilish hist’ry?
What will they do
To undo your blasphemous
Ass from itself?
They will glorify you.
Call for Caravaggio!
A wave of fools and
About to wash over you,
White wigs in place.
Tight faces, clinched cheeks.
Your enemy is weak,
They are diplomats,
And me and my neighbors
Their humble servants.
“We is come to deny you.
We is come to ignore you.
We is come to destroy you.
We is come here before you.
We is come…
[We is backwards…]”
And soon follow more
And more bodies,
Rolling down the hill
To fill the frame with
Lame layers of skin
Instead of gold paint
Coloring the corners
Of our imagination.
And your vision
Is out of sight.
Art and the mad man. The mad man. The mad man in me is living through the faces of cultural Europe. Let’s make one thing clear: I am a mad man. I am not, however, the ultimate icon of denial for Post-modernistic thinkers that is the humble medium of the universal truths of human emotion, human’s true eye on reality. For he is otherwise known as the genius artist. And although it is real that genius artists are mad men – I, a mad man, am not a genius artist. I am merely a man from another dimension with the desire to share his moments of being mentally incapacitated, of having been thrown back by the force of the mad man genius so hard once, that he was pulled onto and forced to blueball the horse of crazy for the rest of his life.
It must be evident, by now, where I am going with this: Madness is living in me through the faces of cultural Europe – if it wasn’t alive already, through birth. And I wasn’t born the way you real people are born…So…
I see Caravaggio, Keats, Socrates and Ataman. For it is them that I next visit as my scrawny little behind makes a move across the rough, unholy and uncoveted lands of Western Europe. At least, it takes a mad man to believe they are there. See for yourself.
I talk to them, I smell their dead presence as ignorant and disbelieving tourists walk past – snap, snap…tap! As if a ghost can be captured on celluloid…It can’t, okay? Pixels neither. One needs to invite it into the habitat of the living with some live conversation, maybe a smoke, and a fresh cup of coffee, or something or other. Do that, and you’ll be up for a real good conversation. Find out about untruths that will make your ears sing. Green eggs and ham isn’t the only meal we never heard of…
It turns out the genius creator has decided he will be the mad man none of us, without losing their fragile minds, could be. Indeed, at this very moment even, my fingers have trickled away from the cerebral center they are controlled by, and green goo in the shape of square bubbles is oozing down the walls left and right of me. There isn’t much sense anymore in letting these letters fall together so coherently; they have nothing to say about the state I am found in yester morning days, seven pickles…Path, laugh, dribble…
And indeed, as Dalí pointed out, the only difference between mad men and mad men genius creators, so to say, is that the latter aren’t actually mad. I have to admit – I do feel the same. “We are but men, ROCK!”
And so my humble little behind is out to find its kindred souls…
2 Comments | tags: act, art, artist, ataman, bildensturm, caravaggio, dali, eggs, genius, green, ham, iconoclasm, II, karfield, keats, love, mad, madness, man, sane, sanity, socrates | posted in Fundamentals, Shorts
D, what must have been on your mind?
Your copious crazy,
Your stringy figures.
My body model to your brain that’s mine.
I find it weird you and I both exist,
Or once did.
D, what must you have been thinking?
Your magical madness,
Your artistic precision.
Choose to refute our every day vision,
Enrich it with your satirical composition.
How must you have hearted the world?
How it beats here today.
Irregular as my rhythm now,
On purpose, I must say.
Help me channel the chambers of your tomb,
The way you represented so much more beautiful.
Wish I could sing you back to life,
But life is what it is;
Your temple will burn in the end.
Yet for now my impure singing
Will set out to save it for the world to see –
A ticket to Figueres
Is hidden underneath this scribble,
For those who read between the letters.
This crusty beard of mine
Will never take of Velasquez.
Is that what you ask us
When we look through your glasses?
D, take me away
To your far-stretched, distant horizon.
Take me to your soul
As it lies on a bed of wires,
On the fringe of being sliced into pieces.
You are ill, and you will have to be treated.
D, will you let me take you to a place?
It is our turn now.
You have created a nest,
And we is the mindless fetuses,
Searching for mindlessness.
5 Comments | tags: art, artist, bildensturm, catalonia, dali, figueras, figueres, genius, iconoclasm, karfield, love, mad, mindlessness, museo, salvador, surrealism, teatro, vanity, velasquez | posted in Poetry
Your invisible touch
Clutched my balls, and all
Hell broke loose between
The brain cells of my
Belly, get ‘em by the go.
War of the brain, I tell ya.
You don’t think it’s true?
You better believe me,
My mind was hungry,
My mind was greedy.
But you and I,
We only met in a snap,
Shared 27 nightcaps,
And what was
Was what it was,
Or, that was that.
Like the others did,
You didn’t leave me
Behind in a sea
Full of beautiful pictures,
For me to heed and defy.
Instead, there was one teeny
Tiny little work,
Between two moments
In a brawl with a broad
And a jerk.
You can imagine
I couldn’t pay attention.
Got distracted from
So, your genius has been swept
From my mumbling mind,
And thus your soul need my mumbling find…
I will get you, Petey
Some solid solitude,
Together with one of the greatest geniuses in my life.
Was never alive when he shined,
But surely his left eye is staring me blind from behind my glass full of Cava.
Pictures surround me –
Drawings from that time,
Depicting genius homies depicted by the divine.
The reprint pixels are fine,
But close by the prints are apparently from this time.
Much like the rest,
And absinthe doesn’t ripe –
So that is surely not from 1909.
I decline into my seat and rhyme of tomato,
Olive oil and sparkling Barcelona wine.
Wish I knew your real name,
So I could come cry in the coming night.
Thanks for leaving this temple,
For our empty souls to devour.
It is nice…
Fumar puede matar
Chasing after some American senior gat, I rush myself outside to see if I can bum a smoke off them. Too bad they’re only taking the exit to visit the gift shop across…Brainwashed Yankees.
I stand in the cold and wonder. What could have been the original inhabitation of that building across from me and those four cats, smack in the middle of what must have been the most bubbly, alive artistic district of the first half of the Spanish 20th century? A hospital for anyone failing to perform their drinking duties under the severe pressure of the king of cubism? A whore house for the horribly lonely artists that were his friends; and since they were what they were, as Allen denotes in his study of Catalunya, always in need of living with a woman? Before, after, and during their smokin’ drinks.
I disappoint back in, desiring to bash myself in the head with the nearly emptied plate of tomato-olive oil toast with Pablo’s picture of a cat, seeing how my own Egyptian ciggies have run out – the reason I so opportunistically rushed outside in the first place. I’m not that desperate, usually, but feel the need to at least trample to safety one bud in the exact same spot where our antagonist must have done that very same thing – although I imagine he smoked cigars – once. I could’ve just walked by and done it, after obtaining a cigar from a tabacaria well-prepared. But I was here now anyway, soaking up his left over, 100-year-old energy…and Cava.
Come on, now, let me get my smoke on and do it…
And as the pianist in the back room, the diner, the once brain room, I imagine, kicks off with some atmospheric sound waves, I am forced to tell you that the bartender catches on to my romantically modernist intentions, and offers me one of his hard-earned Camels – like any self-respecting, non-Dutch European would.
Thanks, Picasso junior junior. Or is it Modigliani’s heritage – indeed, he is the only one, besides the Catalonian I’m taking home tonight, who is young enough to be regarded as stemming from another generation; the others as old as the wine I’m using to flush down my absinthe with – that is destined to serve us wanna-be Picassians? Glad to think of you both, anyway.
The building across the street was actually a storage room for all the Italians’ long-lost masterpieces; again, Picasso was the brilliant mind in charge. He would hide all the genius that didn’t flow from his brain, and slowly his ego gained in size and importance. And now I’m standing here, looking at that very building, that secret safe of genius, through a dusty frame of nicotine, playing out a murder scene…
The passionate crime that will be pardoned. To tell about something I’ve seen, without knowing exactly what it is…without knowing whether or not it was actually there.
Graçias, señor Cava. Graçias por el hangover-to-be. Graçias, Barçelona.
Picasso, I think we need to talk some more…
1 Comment | tags: art, artist, barcelona, bildensturm, catalonia, cava, cigarette, cubism, escobar, fumar, gats, genius, hospitality, iconoclasm, karfield, love, mad, matar, modernism, modigliani, pablo, picasso, prostitutes, puede, spain | posted in Shorts
Shoe laces dangling
In front of my face.
Must have been ages
Since Gaudí took the stage.
The rain must have fazed
All the memories engaged.
But those shoes,
In this place,
Keep them well in the race.
The cathedral the backdrop,
The Gothic makes grace.
Will I choose
To reduce them to
Embracing this page?
Will they ooze out of Barça
Before they’re replaced?
Well, they friggin’ better.
For no matter how hard he tries,
Gaudí shall no longer be able to
Savor the beauty
That’s about to be wasted.
Down the rabbit hole
He’s chased the grim reaper
And his mates.
Behold, the wave –
Negligence & Foolishness are under way…
Could anyone tell me,
Can anyone help me?
I’ve got this burning hot question,
Sounds like a history lesson.
How the Egyptian artifacts lived
Through time like they did…