With heroin withdrawals
creeping up his limbs
like cemetery ivy
trying to strangle moonlight.
His shaking hands scrumple up
‘Letter To The Legislator
Of The Law Of Narcotics’
and casts it to the asylum floor.
Picking up instead
a half written essay
on another madman
who painted starry skies,
cornfields and haystacks.
The thrumming witchcraft
emanating from Montparnasse
slackens its distorting grip, slightly…
and he smiles a sad half-smile,
and seeing a truth
where others merely gaze at art.
There’s a whinging alley cat
within his shipwrecked, tortured soul,
yet, it’s a genius old moggy to boot.
To scale and descend
the intricate tiers of a fractured mind,
punished with electric shock treatment,
for going where most fear to tread.
And still scalpel a line onto tattered page
with such relevance, force and dark beauty,
whilst ‘The Theatre Of Cruelty’
encores forever inside his head,
is to be appreciated and applauded, always.