Moment of Sanity, Part III: The Human

Moment of Sanity, Part I: The Genius
Moment of Sanity, Part II: The Mad Man
Moment of Sanity, Part III: The Human

Art and the human. The human. The human in me is living through the faces of cultural Europe. Let’s make one thing clear: I am not human. Nor am I the ultimate icon of denial for Post-modernist thinkers that is the humble medium of the universal truths of human emotion, human’s true eye on reality. But, yah, no-one said I was, so I’m not quite sure how I came to emphasize that here.

I am merely a writer from another dimension with the desire to share his soul, and how it is thrown back by the force of the human beings denying its existence in the face of their reality. It brings me to life…A life I don’t need, as it is one in which art is facing total annihilation.

Ah, humanness: Gaia forbid that you ever be left uncaptured by the brush holding, pen licking, clay sticking, stage tricking, string plucking, dicks ****** freaks and geeks on this earth that we call artists. Mozart, Kafka and Brecht. I am walking in their footsteps…And I’m sad I came too late.

The traces of great men with great minds in times of terrible trouble. And it occurred to me that none of these traces will be captured in a glass box, plaster casted to outlast the shit storm we are currently concocting.

It occurred to me that these traces needed to be refreshed…

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Turkish rhyme: THE VENTRILOQUIST OF DISORDER

The ventriloquist of disorder
Now, you know
A man is really
Mad when he
Obsesses over
Someone else’s
Madness;
You know an
Artist really
Matters when
He does so with
Bitter sadness.
Gives an infected
Transsexual a
Glance at itself,
In the mean
While he comically
Belly dances.
A video archive
Of Orange County
Bounty hunters,
Porn stars,
Hippies and prancers.
 
This Turkish
Man whom I
Hadn’t heard of
Before I engaged
In this artistic
Battle –
I feel ashamed –
Turned my
Skepsis into rattles
Of the brain cells,
Partly psychological,
If convention
Is the cattle,
And the art I
Surrender to saddled
Across the backs
Of the horses we
Use to wrangle.
 
Jump from one
Frame of Beta
To another,
Like a son cheating
On his mother,
With an obsession
For florescent colors;
OCD, collections,
And such.
 
This post-modern
Hero is the doctor
Who likes to wander,
The analyst coming
Out from underneath
The disease on which
It ponders.
And it catches
Infectious, delusive
Effects as it
Projects its subjects
Obsessively.
 
The analyst turns
Catalyst, and the
Audience the doctor
Of a second-hand
Patient,
Patiently,
As it assumes
The examinee proctor.
And we study ourselves.
 
Thank you,
Ventriloquist man,
For being
Sickly inspired
By our sickness,
Humanity.


Greek rhyme: MYTH HUMMUS

Myth hummus
All of these
Socrates loving,
Ancient stone rubbing
Iconoclasts with
Plastic wraps around
The burgers they
Lavishly salvage
While they pass
Through the mountain
Of philosophical
Past,
Have managed to
Upset those grounds
Such that archeologists
Are mislead.
As the sign reads,
They said that
The Ancient Agora
Where Socrates
Bred on the troubles
Of men and ethics
And crap,
Is down by the
Temple which
Stands at the stem
Of this beautiful gem.
Yet my insides
Tell me that
History failed me,
And really,
The peoples
Of modern times
Have derailed me.

Follow the trail
Of self-employed,
Lyrical deception,
And you’ll sail into
The mystery of history.
Just note that our
Paths are unclear.
It seems, that
Concoction of Plato,
Socrates, the Great Ol’,
The artist’s sacred halo,
Pondered on peace,
Greed and envy
Right up here –
Between sunlit rocks
And ants crawling
In the atmosphere.
The steep, sleepy
Hills of green in
The shadow of the
Trees they breathe,
Just above the temple
That was built by the
Hands that Plato heeded;
In nature was the force
He needed to see this
Force is all we be.
World’s wisdom
Living with us,
Right and wrong
Hidden in songs
From that day on,
Sung by nymphs
And professional
Hymnists from the gym.
Those big ones,
With fire from their cracks.
And a fantasy is
Blamed for our troubles…


Romantic intermezzo: LOVE ACCORDING TO PLATO

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
Penrose tiles.
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.


Roman rhyme: JUST MY MONASTERY

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.


Roman rhyme: CALLING MIKE

Calling Mike
Dark and twisted
Like your past.
Chrystal clear,
Yet some secrets within.
Your visual rhythm
Pounds the drums of my ears.
Homage to the master
Of universal mind.
Right there,
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. 

Meticulous detail
Painstakingly placed
On the walls of God.
Your venture as ironic
As Job’s return
To Heaven.
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
Drooling lunatics
About to wash over you,
White wigs in place.
Tight faces, clinched cheeks.
Your enemy is weak,
Caravaggio.
They are diplomats,
You see.
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.


Moment of Sanity, Part II: The Mad Man

Moment of Sanity, Part I: The Genius
Moment of Sanity, Part II: The Mad Man
Moment of Sanity, Part III: The Human

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.

It takes one to know one.

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…


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