He
was a piece
of  work,
His life a
work of art
He was
a brilliant fool
masquerading as genius
Or, perhaps,
a stellar genius
just  acting
the fool
He wore his success
like a stagnant, rotting albatross
around his neck,
its stench his constant
companion and
splendid cologne
His Life Portrait was
surreal,
abstract, askew
Each and every
moment of his moments
engorged with
gleeful rage and
upcoming root-canal apprehension
He
was a proverbial
mess
Who constantly,
addictively,
helplessly
sought the problem,
the flaw,
the not-quite-right –
even in Summer’s pale roses
He just
took for granted
that,
even in Heaven
there’s something
terribly off,
The angels’ harps just
a wee bit out of tune
Like I said,
this man
was a colossal mess –
Picasso gone wrong