beguile, blue angel
she kidnapped me, into that place in her poem.
a field of scarlet crowned flowers, intimidated
by a spectral wind, beneath a sky that was
something bolder than a sky. & all this conceived
by a painter whose relentless passion caused him
to hack off his own ear.
I donít understand poetry, itís so elusive.
itís conflicting, itís untamable.
it is also an overdose of euphoria Ė
the feeling is the same,
whether youíre stoned on art,
and so I blatantly ripped off her ethereal paradise.
I made a bed of her lush meadow, & observed
that fearsome sky; she, by my side.
dream on, poet.
itís not real, itís a fantasy,
itís a place Iíve never beenÖ
Öand yet, itís so familiar.