Uploaded October 2024 | Updated September 2026, 4 days ago
The man with the cabbage head
We visited Serge Gainsbourg’s house in Paris
And listened to his daughter explain
The make up of his fractured life
The black walls
The black piano
And the black halls
Claustrophobic and covered in Felt
We were led to his master bedroom
The black sheets on a king sized bed
With black pillows
And Polaroids of a scattered woman
Bound in rope
The muse and the man with the cabbage head
We were told about his death
How he was discovered there in a cold skin morning
The mask having finally won
The leg sticking out
The heart stopped
And history blooming in a canyon of onlookers
As the dysfunction of his life
Becomes idle fodder for Sunday afternoon at the museum
Most of us are just forgotten
And maybe that’s better than being a morbid curiosity (or celebrated hero)
Maybe not
But as a trade for a life of eternal grace and love
It’s one helluva booby prize
Serge said when he became famous
He put a mask on and finally the mask took over
Or to put it another way
If the ego is validated by the world
If you get to be Elvis
If you get to be serge
If you get to be Kurt
If you get to be Janis
The world is giving the enemy within permission to turn your head into cabbage
We are only really gifted when the false self is devastated
And can no longer present an identity to the world
The cabbage head becomes a God head
We are graced into the eternal now
And we don’t serve some illusion we are pretending to be
No matter how glamorous or sexy we think it is
Instead we serve the moment
We avoid the club
We get up before our children
And we get born again into new skin
And new possibilities
But God forbid you become a cultural icon
In a dark room
With cigarettes and a piano
Badges and bullets
Antique dolls
And stories
From your children about your disappearance in the night
When she told the story of your exit
I saw your spirit appear behind me
And then walk across the room
The man with the cabbage head
Lost in a permanent splendor
Glamorous and sad
Whispering through wilting lips
“You still have a chance.”
Josepharthur.com for more art and music
The man with the cabbage head
We visited Serge Gainsbourg’s house in Paris
And listened to his daughter explain
The make up of his fractured life
The black walls
The black piano
And the black halls
Claustrophobic and covered in Felt
We were led to his master bedroom
The black sheets on a king sized bed
With black pillows
And Polaroids of a scattered woman
Bound in rope
The muse and the man with the cabbage head
We were told about his death
How he was discovered there in a cold skin morning
The mask having finally won
The leg sticking out
The heart stopped
And history blooming in a canyon of onlookers
As the dysfunction of his life
Becomes idle fodder for Sunday afternoon at the museum
Most of us are just forgotten
And maybe that’s better than being a morbid curiosity (or celebrated hero)
Maybe not
But as a trade for a life of eternal grace and love
It’s one helluva booby prize
Serge said when he became famous
He put a mask on and finally the mask took over
Or to put it another way
If the ego is validated by the world
If you get to be Elvis
If you get to be serge
If you get to be Kurt
If you get to be Janis
The world is giving the enemy within permission to turn your head into cabbage
We are only really gifted when the false self is devastated
And can no longer present an identity to the world
The cabbage head becomes a God head
We are graced into the eternal now
And we don’t serve some illusion we are pretending to be
No matter how glamorous or sexy we think it is
Instead we serve the moment
We avoid the club
We get up before our children
And we get born again into new skin
And new possibilities
But God forbid you become a cultural icon
In a dark room
With cigarettes and a piano
Badges and bullets
Antique dolls
And stories
From your children about your disappearance in the night
When she told the story of your exit
I saw your spirit appear behind me
And then walk across the room
The man with the cabbage head
Lost in a permanent splendor
Glamorous and sad
Whispering through wilting lips
“You still have a chance.”
Josepharthur.com for more art and music
