Note
The following poem was inspired by Ian Cattanach’s recent post titled “Unlocking Your Poetry with the Ghazal: A Leap Beyond Western Poetics.”
Link to the post:
A Vision of Hell
I ask the man without a stomach why he eats. He looks at me with patinated teeth, and grins as, from him, spill the fruits of a half-chewed cornucopia. Dearest, did you always have eight legs? I must be imagining things, then, my love. You are my Aphrodite — my chittering cornucopia. Where is my foot? Where is my fickle head? My hand wallows in mud as the other fondles stars and burns. My flight spills from a phantasmagoric cornucopia. Do you have a mirror I could borrow? My vanity seems to be broken. It only shows my new head, my coquette’s cornucopia. A god of sorts — no — something greater by far, spreads a whale’s carcass along the beach like butter from a butterknife cornucopia. Open your mouth and let, in, dangle, a slug of phlegm, and hate, and scorn. Seize as you taste my effluent cornucopia. What shade is the guitar on which you harp your gaudy dreams? Does it loath to be, of such vulgar sentiments, a canorous cornucopia? I didn’t mean to hurt you. I only enjoyed, seeing you suffer. Now, beneath neon, you stand, pink-lit, my tearful cornucopia.
Hieronymus Bosch, The Garden of Earthly Delights (cropped to show a part of the “Hell“ panel), 1500-1504
I've been procrastinating on this task, but I feel motivated by your example.