Real Work (The Brilliant Fool)

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