The mind of a tortured genius - a poem by Chris Zachariou

Symbols of Societal Conformity

The crazed painter dips his brush
into the hues of his squalid mind.

He pours his twisted visions onto the temple walls—
putrid green to drown the lamb,
red and black for the demons dancing on the towers.

With his paintbrush, a dagger drawn at midnight,
he paints The Star and three wise impostors
until everyone is pierced by his poisoned arrows;
bruised and bleeding, they gasp for their betrayed lives.

He smears the manikins with bright red lipstick
and parts their frail thighs.
Their torn see-through negligees and scarlet panties,
are down to their knees and the spectators ogle
the disfigured dolls, masturbating in unmuted frenzy.

Botticelli's Venus emerges from the rancid waters,

a skull and a few broken bones, yet she is more
alluring than these promiscuous manikins
sprawled out by the riverbank with such abandon.

Depraved faces with distorted vision shine in the dark
but the painter with a single stroke of his jealous brush
blindfolds their lurid eyes.

The masterpiece, complete with salivating manikins
and bloated corpses, now hangs in a renowned gallery.

Patrons come to glimpse the mind of this tortured genius.
Aspiring artists, teachers and their pupils
armed with pens and pads kneel and stare in awe
and renowned critics crowd around writing perceptive words
to feature in the columns of the Sunday newspapers.

Amazed, I watch from my world of two dimensions
wishing for such an insight into my own crazy mind.