A Retrospective Upon the Liberation of the Ascetic Artist December 19, 2013
A Wanderlust for Truth Amid the Spirit Mired in Decadence
I read o' an Epoch measured by dateless time,
How the Gilded Age begat our new paradigm:
How the wild buffalo roam'd the plains openly,
So did ingénues such as Phoebe Ann Oakley,
And her fellow cowboy pard, 'tis such a thrill,
The Wild West Show's exporter, Buffalo Bill!
But the West hath been won for many years,
And tho' I have since shed a great many tears,
I call 'pon the portrait of thy love, Mona Lisa,
As I seek Zorba the Greek to muse o' Aegea.
In landing in Crete as mark'd o' frugal desire,
'Tis an immortal spring igniting thy carnal fire.
I desire a kindred spirit to finally pardon me,
As wine and Sirens bid thee kip as I sail at sea.
I'll flee a life I once knew rapt by a stoic ruse,
Chisel a glyph o' a Hesiodic debutante's Muse.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Cynical Man
'Tis I, Pygmalion! I seek thy sacred rose,
So Kafkaesque; and I? A poet amid repose.
'Tis I, Pygmalion! A lost bohemian lyricist,
Desiring o' my fair lady amid a fiery tryst.
The world's avarice hath wrought 'pon cold,
I'll sculpt fair Galatea from an ivory mold!
Epilogue
I read the lessons o' what our history loan'd,
'Tis I, the epicurean, forever to be atoned
Upon all o' the lessons so mired in calumny,
Pontiffs always warn ideologues as are me:
A swallow who protrudes Curiosity's head
Shall etch his own epitaph before he's dead.
How the Gilded Age begat our new paradigm:
How the wild buffalo roam'd the plains openly,
So did ingénues such as Phoebe Ann Oakley,
And her fellow cowboy pard, 'tis such a thrill,
The Wild West Show's exporter, Buffalo Bill!
But the West hath been won for many years,
And tho' I have since shed a great many tears,
I call 'pon the portrait of thy love, Mona Lisa,
As I seek Zorba the Greek to muse o' Aegea.
In landing in Crete as mark'd o' frugal desire,
'Tis an immortal spring igniting thy carnal fire.
I desire a kindred spirit to finally pardon me,
As wine and Sirens bid thee kip as I sail at sea.
I'll flee a life I once knew rapt by a stoic ruse,
Chisel a glyph o' a Hesiodic debutante's Muse.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Cynical Man
'Tis I, Pygmalion! I seek thy sacred rose,
So Kafkaesque; and I? A poet amid repose.
'Tis I, Pygmalion! A lost bohemian lyricist,
Desiring o' my fair lady amid a fiery tryst.
The world's avarice hath wrought 'pon cold,
I'll sculpt fair Galatea from an ivory mold!
Epilogue
I read the lessons o' what our history loan'd,
'Tis I, the epicurean, forever to be atoned
Upon all o' the lessons so mired in calumny,
Pontiffs always warn ideologues as are me:
A swallow who protrudes Curiosity's head
Shall etch his own epitaph before he's dead.
I fancy to read stories o' the Old Wild West,
Or to Crete for the frugal o' heart Zorba's best.
But 'pon Day's Twilight, I shall always remain
Amid thy neighbors, tho' it appears mundane.
Rocky Top shall always be thy humble abode,
And I'll ne'er sail an odyssey 'cross Aegean road.
Or to Crete for the frugal o' heart Zorba's best.
But 'pon Day's Twilight, I shall always remain
Amid thy neighbors, tho' it appears mundane.
Rocky Top shall always be thy humble abode,
And I'll ne'er sail an odyssey 'cross Aegean road.
The mountain dew paints a ferment'd reprieve,
Banjos dueling with her Smoky Mountain fog.
As I distill sweet corn to sip from Mason jars,
I'm a hillbilly inhaling Corinthian exhaust smog.
Shall I seek always an eclectic, exotic sighting,
Or I, the wiser, drink o' her white lightning?
What is art? Squiring a freed pixie wildflower?
As you like it! For Aestheticism is our power!
Banjos dueling with her Smoky Mountain fog.
As I distill sweet corn to sip from Mason jars,
I'm a hillbilly inhaling Corinthian exhaust smog.
Shall I seek always an eclectic, exotic sighting,
Or I, the wiser, drink o' her white lightning?
What is art? Squiring a freed pixie wildflower?
As you like it! For Aestheticism is our power!
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