The poor brain in firmament
Bows to de Quincey’s tyranny
of the violin, addict him, who
bore a strange fruit and flower
more maudlin than the fruit:
this brain of a wasteland
well populated, like the maze
only recluses claim kinship in,
that begs a home in which to stand:
professor of no hope, no hope,
he lonely with only her homely,
amalgam of shapes mysterious
embalmed in the living cadaver
of Greek San Grians, those livers
failed that supported legends.
And they hardly spoke of Adam’s hunger,
boy-revolter of that first third-world.
Genius is only post-humus,
else what humors overtake
a sensible man so-called?
Naked Adam claimed one and all.
As the noon begins the night,
so too poverty begins a trinity
of syllables we squander on
all miserable antiquity.
How it ferments, that cleft
drain made bereft for our dwelling,
“for much madness is divinest sense,”
how it abuses bodies hence,
dragged into the count of centuries
where the stead of days counts no cerebry.
Baby Adam, the very first revolutionary
only sunk himself in wine berries.