The Garden of Earthly Delights
My writing hand is itching
To paint a vivid poem titled
“The Garden of Earthly Delights.”
Suddenly the Muse appears
Out of nowhere and slaps
My hand dead in its tracks
Even before I am able to write
A single syllable—what poetic
Interruptus! If you may ask
Why? Because the master
Renaissance painter and genius
Hieronymus Bosch has already
Said it all in his magnificent
Triptych between 1490 and 1510.
And my petty attempt would
Have been a futile, glaring
Plagiarism galore. Which of
Course doesn’t sit well with
The finicky Muse since it would
Be a clear, embarrassing case
Of pure literary indiscretion,
Of creative impiety, a brazen
Transgression of poetic license,
And plagiarism in epic proportions!
* * *
Gestures and Posturings
I, a hyperventilating hybrid between
A latter-day Hieronymus Bosch and
That sadistic medieval Grand Inquisitor
Tomas de Torquemada, O marooned
In the Garden of Earthly Delights, am
Infernally tired of playing a flip-flopping
Melodramatic Dantean antic ingeniously
Combined with a vulgar slapstick comedy
Of errors skit, of my weird psychopompic,
Pseudo-poetic posturings, of mimicking
The epileptic, terpsicorean gestures of
Has-been, arthritic mimes, and of gladly
Aping the frozen monumental stance
Of a pitiful bronze nuance gleaming
In the scorching noonday sun with a
Toxic patina of bluish-green verdigris,
Its right foot recklessly charging to
The thick of battle, while its left foot
Backpedals like a cowardly, panicking
Unscathed deserter towards a court
Martial and a murderous firing squad.
Am I half hero, part fool, half Caesar,
Part Falstaff cardboard character?
Here I am strutting about stiffly upon
The tragic stage of Life set against
An outlandish surreal backdrop and lit
With hypnotic psychedelic strobe lights,
Complete with shrieking, pulsing siren
Sounds—a veritable Theater of the Absurd.
Ugh! I am bored to rigor mortis, while
Masquerading as the messiah of mummified
Myths, a rabid redeemer of rustic rhymes,
A secret, subtle shaper of stillborn silences.
By the isosceles triangle of Pythagoras, all
I ever crave for is to spend the butt end
Of my days lying upon a bed of scuttling
Crabgrass and making necrophilic love
With holy abandon to my deader-than-a-
Door-nail beloved—a once-upon-a-time
Gyrating lap dancer, now a decomposing,
Eyeless redhead wriggling with worms—
To the syncopated erotic beat of lambada
Music, surrounded by a mob of ogling
Harlequins that boons us with a standing
Ovation by clapping their mail-gloved hearts
And stomping, akin to hardcore foot-fetishists,
Their abominable imagination encased
In concrete hollow blocks designed like
Signature Prada camouflaged combat boots
Worn by overzealous sturm und drang SS
Shock troops. Bah! such is the folly of vanity.
No wonder my confidential head-shrinker
Is taking a screaming roller coaster ride
Through that spiraling, vertiginous pitch
Black void (not light) at the tunnel’s end.
* * *
While writing this poem,
An 8-magnitude earthquake
Shakes the very ground
Beneath my feet. Compliments
Of tectonic plates clashing
Like gigantic geologic cymbals.
Startled. Shocked. Rattled.
My poem is pale and quivers
With fear. The poem’s survival
Button activates, flashes red.
Each letter, syllable, word
And line scamper in all
Directions like mouses and
Slip back to their dark, tiny holes.
I try to goad my poem to come
Back and nestle in the ruddy
Palm of my imagination.
No dice. Then the earth shakes
And shimmies again, opens
Its enormous rocky jaws,
And swallows my whole
Inspiration body and soul.