15 minutes of Fame
Posted: September 8th, 2008, 10:57 am
Henry was a private man,
measured unstable liquids,
volatile powders
in fragile glass beakers
late into the night
in the mildewing cellar.
He mixed them,
he agitated them, he spoke
to them like you coo to a baby.
He warmed them
with his breath, his love,
his Bunsen Burner.
He studied the striped layers
separated by density,
inhaled the vapors, spewed
words and ideas
on impatient paper, swiftly
as fingers can steer
a writing implement across
an empty page,
and his poems got better.....
and better and even
better and from that moment on
he cranked the jaws
of the vise of fame a little
tighter each day, but Henry
burned expensive fuel,
the price of fame is dear.
He broke away from chartreuse
and tangerine, wore only
crimson and olive drab,
his abilities waned like the fading
days of October when winter numbed
the remnants of his furtive garden.
Henry inhaled the dying bouquet
of crippled marigolds,
the essence propelling him back
to his place of his origin.....
a babbling idiot.
measured unstable liquids,
volatile powders
in fragile glass beakers
late into the night
in the mildewing cellar.
He mixed them,
he agitated them, he spoke
to them like you coo to a baby.
He warmed them
with his breath, his love,
his Bunsen Burner.
He studied the striped layers
separated by density,
inhaled the vapors, spewed
words and ideas
on impatient paper, swiftly
as fingers can steer
a writing implement across
an empty page,
and his poems got better.....
and better and even
better and from that moment on
he cranked the jaws
of the vise of fame a little
tighter each day, but Henry
burned expensive fuel,
the price of fame is dear.
He broke away from chartreuse
and tangerine, wore only
crimson and olive drab,
his abilities waned like the fading
days of October when winter numbed
the remnants of his furtive garden.
Henry inhaled the dying bouquet
of crippled marigolds,
the essence propelling him back
to his place of his origin.....
a babbling idiot.
