Everyone loves ascending fourths 


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Paintings of orthodox monks on the wall

Impotent Mark holds his pen to forehead

Waiting for proof of his unquestioned gift


3 open windows bring air to his cheeks

The rest of him smothered in 3 sweat drenched sheets

With commission spent and date drawing 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 gives in to the warm soft night

to drift carefree beyond imagined eyes


In dreams he finds a cure that for now will suffice  


Everyone loves ascending fourths 


Paintings of orthodox monks on the wall

Watch Markus spill ink freely on his finest scores

65 repetitions of ascending fourths 


As dawn breaks men arrive in droves, forcing 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, to risk, to fail 


Unanimously condemned

His masterpiece schmaltz

Impure, no heart, no taste

Markus ascends Forth, In the heart of the common man