Love

Oh how beautifully the ugliness rears his head.
Oh how harmoniously the off key opera sounds tonight.
Oh how wittedly the actor forgot his lines for theatre.
Oh how synchronously the art does blossom midst the chaotic lines on the canvas.

How horrendously f*****g beautiful…

It has power to drive the east, west.
It has power to drive the north, south.
It has power to drive a sane man, mad.
It has power to drive inside, out.

Perchance we give it too much power.
Perhaps we give it accurate sovereign.
Somehow it dominates most of the arts.
Someway it makes us burst at the seams.

I’ve seen insomniacs try to rest on it, while it yanks away the pillow.
I’ve seen the lame attempt to stand on it, while they fall from a missing crutch.
I’ve been able to thrive on it, just for it to leave me homeless.
I’ve seen people die on it, and it still kicked them until they were lifeless.

It has the ability to make a giant crumble.
It has the ability to destroy the world.
It has the ability to take this poem and flip this s**t backward, then flip it forward, spin it 360 and back again. 

It is the coddling masked-murderer named Love.

In the name of love Juliet called for Romeo.
In the name of love was there an extremely well-choreographed suicide.
In the name of love hate is bred.
In the name of love we can justify a man chopping off his own head.

And here we are on the stage that we call life, and you may contribute a verse.
To exit the stage that we all call life, you leave it in a hearse.
Throw the sword of love on the ground and it will drive us all in directions.
This play will have actors from the grand stage later found dangling by suspensions.

And here we are in the symphony that we call life and you may contribute a chord.
To exit the stage that we call life, you leave it nailed to a harpsichord.
Throw the sword of love on the ground and it will drive the symphony in all directions.
This orchestra will have musicians in the grand hall later found stabbed by musician’s perfection.

And here we are in the gallery that we call life and you may contribute a piece.
To exit the stage that we call life, you leave it ground up in pigment leaves.
Throw the sword of love on the ground and it will send the sculptures in all directions.
This art show will have artists in the cathedrals of Italy later be found impaled by the object of their affection.

Love will get us to hell and back, then eventually back to hell.
This dirge could go on, but it isn’t a song, just a maddening story to tell.
Well love f***s us over, but we still live in crimson clovers to quote Shakespeare since his reign stood tall:
“It is better to have loved, and have lost, than to have never loved at all.”

Reviews

[R J Askew]

Bravo. For drama 10. For vim 10. For satire 10.
I like the way the repetitions in the top half work up a nice head of steam. And I like the arch tone very much, which seems to say, 'I see you Love, with all your tricksy ways.'
I esp like the gear change into second wind once the booster rocket's done it's job.
The second half of the write still uses repeats but in a more measured way. Time is being taken.
I like the verse/hearse gag. But my absolute favourite bit is the 'Throw' refrain. Nice one. Great verb, throw. And I swear I could see that sword going haywire on the ground like some gone wrong compass needle in a magnetic love storm.
This might make a great spoken piece. Reading it would show where you cld nip and tuck to make it minorly.

[Harlotte Crow]

I think I see about three awkward little lines that's longer than the rest. I have to go back and scribble over it to break it down again to make sure I didn't miss anything.

I'm glad that the poem spoke it's piece amidst my chaotic imagery! Sometimes when I write in a frenzy like I did here, everything gets lost in the plot!