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Tuesday, 23 January 2018

Vinz was curt and earnest (poem)

Vinz was curt and earnest
A rather dapper young fellow
He enjoyed carving out crafts of wonder
And sticking them on large pillows.
He poured his heart out to the maid
Who replied by looking solemn and staid
and said he needed to get laid
or clamber out of the window.
At least, that was his interpretation.
He swam around seas of golden fish
Lumbered in a school of convenience
Tossed and turning over his neurons
And making his wife be more lenient
To his stressed and strung-out demands.
He lay his head where the sun didn't shine
And strapped his lungs to the chords of time
For they were not like yours or mine
But much much much more limited.
To take his breath and cut it short
With the scalpel that renewed his thought
And on the canvas he did sprawl
Or typing pen to paper.
The songs that tumbled from his throat
Scratched and made his loved ones gloat
At knowing a man so gifted afloat
Could howl and breach no other.
To take that curved and baleful click
And stick it to his temple quick
Just a tiny little flick
Did disappoint his mother.
And now we bid good men goodbye
The Tender Trio aren't all that lie
Tremendous tools of yonder cry
Out for one so so selfless.
Unto the deathbed lived and said
He cannot understand his head
So many realms of compact knowledge
That curls and whirls beneath.
And if one possesses the gift of Art
For it to be received like farts
No joyous mirth intended, start
To understand such dynasty.
That cannot be akin to all who lived
E Pluribus Unum caved and sits
Within the forces of thick cliffs
And tumble down beneath.
So to conclude this wall of words
One ponders the creation of hers
That stands in the form of gender pearls
one cannot comprehend.
A man creates to little avail
That taketh away at the pace of a snail
Or quite the contrary, then and there
Just sit within the period.
Time doth treat one with many-a-whack
That sits away and cuts no slack
However all may not be Poe
And be known as a man as soon as they sew.

17th May 2015

This poem is about Vincent Van Gogh, Kurt Cobain and Ernest Hemingway (inspired by a clip I saw on Family Guy) and how they were all brilliant yet tortured men and how great artistic people (Sylvia Plath, Edgar Allen Poe) end up being slaves to their demons.

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I'm Zarina Macha, an author, blogger, and musician from London. I write about stuff on the internet 'cos having opinions is fun -- if you want to join the games, please note your thoughts below. All thoughts welcome, even if they're mean (just no spam links please -- can't tell you what a liability those are to remove).
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