A rose’s demons litter the floor around her,
Like death-slapped petals, beauty has just been raped.

And the rose lifts her head to look at me,
Tears flooding her face, and I think I hear her screaming and moaning for her bed.

Yellow tulips relax in silver vases that used to be trophies for a forgotten race
As a robin limps by the Buddha statue, memories of places where food was,
Flittering around his head.

Prussian blue curtains melt against the wall
as I rollick and laugh uproariously,
like Democritus the Aberite
I am in-fin-ite
knowing that Dali and Pollock, Ginsberg and Nin are splitting my soul
with brushstrokes of genius,
so like, and like Nietzsche I am a coup de thé’tre, a prodigy -
modesty after all is for the immodest, and it is them whom I do not care to join.

So stranger why won’t you dance the fandango with me?
We’ll romp&we’ll waltz,
What’s wrong? (I ask, as if imperious to your faults).
Come and tell me your woes, your story and we will laugh like Jesters,
knowing at once our façade
as the words you choose to say, like a player and his cards.

And God sat at his typewriter, ecstatic and miserable, lonely and complete,
But most of all he just sat.
Perhaps a cigar rests gently on his collage-inflated lips,
Pursed as he focuses his omni-potent mind-molecules -
But then he gets bored just as he becomes excited so stops moves and exhales.

And that, was the day I was born.