The Mind Of A Tortured Genius Poem by Chris Zachariou

The crazy painter dips his brush
into the colours of his squalid mind.

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

With his paintbrush, like a dagger draw
at midnight, he paints The Star and the three
wise impostors pierced by his poisoned arrows.
Bleeding, they gasp for their betrayed lives.

He smears manikins with bright red lipstick,
open arms and parted knees. Their see-through
negligees are torn and their scarlet panties have
fallen down to their ankles. Perverted eyes ogle
the disfigured dolls, masturbating in unmuted frenzy.

Botticelli's Venus, reveals herself bathing
in the rancid waters. She is nothing but a skull
and a few broken bones, yet she is more alluring
than the promiscuous manikins afloat on the river
with such abandon.

Depraved faces shining in the darkness
in his distorted vision, are drawn to her
but the painter with a single stroke of his
jealous brush, blindfolds their lurid eyes.

The masterpiece, complete with raging fires
and bloated corpses, ruined temples and salivating
manikins, hangs in a renowned gallery in the city.

Aspiring artists, teachers and their pupils armed
with pens and pads, kneel down and stare in awe.
All are here to glimpse the mind of this tortured genius.
Critics crowd around and they write perceptive words
to feature in the columns of all the Sunday newspapers.

Amazed, I watch from my world of two dimensions.
I wish, I too had such an insight into my crazy mind.