an artist went mad at the sky today
his fever burned hot, his hands like conflagration
his paint caught the heat, it burned incandescent
he threw it up high, causing cloud iridescence
like a liquidized fluorescent mineral
it splattered and hung in the cumulus humilis
he sat on the grass, satiated with sweat
and without warning, broke down and wept
the tides had begun chanting his name
a premonition, a coalition between them and the moon
a celestial body, which was now round and full
demanding his sanity, through it's gravitational pull
he knew what i knew, that when the sun set
his logic would leave him, alone in regret...
the moon makes me crazy, the mascons attack!
they render me violent, but i take it all...
no. fuck you.