A naïve artist considers mortality
OctPoWriMo 2024, Day 12
The doctor told me to add no alcohol to the housefire in my blood. But I’m allowed stabilizing agents, and packaging plastic.
Don’t say time bomb. I’m a timed safe with opioids within. The ones a body releases when it is dying.
I’m an african airbase for competing powers to launch their missions, my own wishes secondary, if that.
But as I enter the final taxi approach of midlife, I will not do as I’m told. Bring me, therefore, the moonshine
of poets, each beaking the fourth wall, in the only acceptable container for my disorder.
© Tolu Oloruntoba
Notes
I have never seen the term naïve art (also called outsider art) used in the context of literature. Which is neither here nor there since I’m not particularly well-read. :) But here’s a definition: Naïve art “…is created by a person who lacks the formal education and training that a professional artist undergoes” (Wikipedia). “The naïve creates with the same passion as the trained artist but without the latter’s formal knowledge of methods” (Britannica). Iambic who? Don’t know her! I have often felt that some of the strengths and weaknesses of poetry come from that lack of formal training. I’m not just playing by ear, I learned this instrument by ear. I’m very likely holding it wrong.
