Muscle Poems

—-inspired found poetry from a history book about Napoleon I found at the psychiatric ward.

Lingering over the menu at a favorite café, Frip stares moodily into the future. Paranoia began to manifest itself from gazing sternly at his portrait of choices. It triumphantly emerges from the gloom, and finally he settles for honey mixed into milk. Absent mindedly of course. Against a backdrop of lesser pedestrians at this pedestrian corner in its own world, the main menu has money as its main desire. So goes down his substantial enough milk drink and off he goes, his table seat replaced, a hero’s resting place.

Along the streets, crowds of tourists took interest in the collection of artwork, theaters and sidewalk dancing. However seductive the prestige appeared in it’s new forms, nothing helped endear him to their subjects. Nothing that attempted to give them an air of legitimacy. The tradition in which they were rooted were an unforgettable symbol of subjugation. Frip made his good escape across the river’s bridge, as wharf engineers worked armpit deep in the icy waters. Their symbolic details evoked triumph. The public was always obliged to wait, then thankfully returned to the luxury consumptions of a life of social pleasure.

Frip felt inside a steeling against the barbarity of war. With a commanding frown, Frip scans a field of battle. And walks away headed towards a faint locale containing monastery like occupation, hungry for a palette of a deeper medium in which to work. Inspired, Frip clips at a faster pace to an obscurity where he wished to wrestle in peace. Cloistered structures designed to contain them were not prosaic with grandeur at all. They cradled the creatives and the seekers who were ravaged into an artistic madness evoked by the horrors of hunger and war. Many who died in the attempt.