Artist Stranded on the Left Bank
Having scaled the mountains of the moon
with no sherpa for a guide,
having eaten steak and kidney pie
in the depths of despair
in a diminutive pub in Soho,
having consumed five-alarm chili
at The Brimstone Club
on All Saint’s Eve,
having wandered at random
through the endless galleries
of The Louvre on a wet afternoon,
having crawled the Continent
for love, for fury, for nothing
more than an impulse of the times,
he became a brash statistic
in the sordid history of absinthe,
all the fascinating sensations
of deranged hallucination
and his unspent masterpieces
revolving in his head.
Comments
Dear Poeter,
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Mohamed -- Thanks for the
Bruce Boston
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