Poetry Spawned And Resurrected By Art

Purple

Words spit like Deer Park Water—
a spring in spring
as the baby pool finds its
location just below the
crooked stilts of a man who
"will not go gentle into that
good night." A meteor of
moonlike madness just
below hell.
Hellacious lips of Madeline
trapped in a concrete world.
No way out except through
the river that connects the
Liliputians with France and
I will not walk across
only to get red mud on my
new purple chucks.