The paintings of orthodox monks on the wall Impotent Mark puts his pen to forehead Waiting for proof of his unquestioned gift As three open windows bring air to his cheeks The rest of him smothered in three sweat drenched sheets With commission spent and date dying near And no newborn zeal or written ideas
A receding hum, akin to pink noise Escapes his cerebral hand that toys Miserably clutching, it never avails Without resorting to kitschy entrails To stand up tall and straight is to break one leg Since last third quarter he has not got out of bed Meanwhile, envoys follow the stars And the arcs of the larks Further north to collect the work Promised to their employer noblemen
He tries in vain for one pure line Under the weight of tired eyes He slips into the warm, soft night To drift carefree beyond imagined eyes In dreams he finds a cure That for now will suffice
The paintings of orthodox monks on the wall Watch Markus spill ink freely on his finest scores Sixty-five repetitions of ascending fourths And day break - men arrive in droves and force the door His work unfinished, they do not accept and throw him to the floor He comes to in chains
Brought in front of judges For testing good faith To try, and to risk, and to fail Unanimously condemned His masterpiece schmaltz Impure, no heart, no taste