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…

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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.

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…