I
the Noble Savage
sacrifice myself
once again
on the small nail that I find
in the books on the bookshelf.
drowning myself in the glass of water
used to wash the paintbrushes,
drinking the particular poison that can be found
only in the garden, the human body, and the human mind.
Nearby, the Byronic Hero
attempts to set his palms on fire
with the matches he found
in the music on the music stand.
His presence ruins the pathos
of my attempt at death
My presence intrudes upon
the loneliness
His chosen loneliness.
He is Edgar Allen Poe, and I
am Isadora Duncan
We are but two
of the hundreds
of the thousands
who search in desperation
for the Honor
given to only the dead.
We starve in garrets,
we lick the backs of stamps,
we paint our eyes black and our skin pale
we burn at the stake.
Still we search for new venues, because
all of these have become
cliches.
Exaggeration of our plight
The depths of self-ignorance
There are those who try to turn us from this pathos,
Who remind us that we are wrong--
they are right
We beg them for help and
scorn their help
It would better suit our purposes
if they refused us.
We tell ourselves that no one understands.
We may be wrong or not--
What matters to us is that we believe ourselves
Alone.
It is painful
But it is necessary, to achieve
Honor, to achieve
the screaming pain of
Art.
Art can be gotten
by other means
but it is then
not
screaming pain.
