The canvas bent around its frame
Empty, yet the mind to tame,
No image, just a woven cloth,
The mind its magic to betroth,
That woven deep within the soul,
Bring forth to light its soulful goal,
Yet the spirit does not move within,
Its anxiety betrays chagrin,
All that empty space to will,
An empty canvass has to fill,
Every stroke and masters touch,
He directs, and he does judge,
Director, actor, in that milieu,
Just too much, he bits adieu,
Now writing that’s another story,
That’s where he found his glory,
He puts the brush aside,
And soon begins to write,
Though, there too, he’d wrung the cloth,
Now drying in the wind it does,
Bland his eyes, the mind portrays,
Dead ends meet, so he delays,
Another day as old as sin,
When will he finally begin?
Obfuscations do him in,
Now he’s into aquavit and gin,
And as a last resort,
He takes a snort,
Peruses literature that pry,
Why artists do run dry,
But there again, no dirt or rhyme,
That it’s normal and just fine,
Ah, the French I’ll pense,
His knowledge will enhance,
Put his fantasies to task,
His scruples to unmask,
A boulevard café frequents,
There some nightly hours spends,
Puts the lighter to the flint,
And share a bottle of absinthe,
Happy then, he’d go to bed,
All his worries gone, for now he’s dead.
Blank his mind and canvass still,
Bestowed it all though, in his will.
21/08/2008
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A blank mind most be that of a brainwashed communist, because even a monkey with a brush and a little bit of paint can sell for 100.000 smackers.
Georg