• Three Poems

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    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.

    * * *

    Tectonic Poem

    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.

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