basquiat was insane and so were the others

a year before i was born
one of those comet-creatures
(yet another) overdosed, died.

while watching a movie about his life
i was shocked to see someone
appreciate his work premortem

(death is after all what skyrockets true artists to fame)

reflecting on reflections of past genius
blurred by cocaine dust and paint smears
i think of two things:

there are few things more beautiful
than coltish gents in lace and lengthy gowns
or cybergoth dress
(or any other attire that makes society squirm
in erotic humiliation)

and/or men in loose clothes and paint spatters;

poets and picture-takers are crazy
musicians are fucked up but
you know as well as i do that the truly insane
(you know, the ones who make psychotic sound like “exquisite”)
are those fucking painters


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