Tag Archives: caravaggio

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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