Pink was scarcely painted in those swirls;
This blander shade of red
Overshadowed by cyan.
Some green in parted sages—no, cypress
That flame-like lick up skyward
’bove a burg that ain’t Cheyenne.

Mad artist’s stars are swelt’ring in the dark,
All the melting yellows welling ’round.
Somewhere up above carrefour’s plane
Are the twinkling links that snake through
Whirling firmament he’d make blue.
He’d never do Impressionism again,
Mais, non!

I recall the Yellow House in Arles,
Home in which he’d slave
Midst that chick hound Gauguin’s fleas.
He purged that left ear, razor in his hand;
These two grown men couldn’t get on. . .Gauguin flees.

Mad artist parted part of otic part—
From the snip, vermillion dripping down.
Something must have caused his brain to pain. . .
There’s a chink were he would make hew,
And the sanguine lake would make hue
On the floor on which this lopped-off oor[1] would end.
Rood[2] flow!

Was it in a songe[3] that he did see
’cause he’d been drinkin’
What the dreamers called the Green Fairy,
Heightening thinkin’?
He would swig; sublime images would swarm
Inside his green-swill, febrile, scenes-filled cerebrum.
And after all, he snuffed out his life
After all, he snuffed out his life;
He had sold just one [painting].

He took his life, and by his own hand—yes, he did lose it.
Now he has won worship in the eyes of those whose views flit—
The buyers bid his prices higher.
Once his passion flowed like star rivers in sky;
The guy was thought a schlub during life,
Guy was thought a schmuck during life.
Now they’re rethinking his hue,
Mad Dutchman guy.

Swag parted from the avatars of art
For big, thick impasto mixed around.
They have helped his rep, now hep, to gain.
They rethink. . .now say he made hues
That are great, although he paid dues—
He was poor, a berserk boer[4], an early end.

So goes, goes Gau’; goes Gogh.