Introduction by George Petros to
On Cloudless Days The Insects Sing
A book of Poetry by Michael Andros

ANDROS, MICHAEL (1954-2054) — American poet, author, illustrator, painter, archivist et cetera. Associated with EXIT-era transgressive and subversive culture, aesthetic terrorism, and art crime. Major works include The Exit Collection and On Cloudless Days The Insects Sing. According to contemporaneous accounts, Andros manipulated others by hypnotic and charismatic methods. He reportedly composed his hard-hitting poetry while tripping on life.

Andros was born in Hawaii to a military man and his old lady. They eventually settled in Florida, where the young poet amazed his teachers and peers with provocative insights expressed through school-fueled essays and writing assignments. In fact, one of his sixth-grade teachers, Mrs. Blum, commented in the September 1966 American Educator, “Michael exhibits an aptitude for higher thought, as is evident in his prodigal progress from non-verbal baby talk to today’s smart little rascal.”

At Florida beaches, guitar in hand, Andros serenaded legions of hipsters. Chicks dug it. One wayward lass was quoted in the June 18, 1969 Clearwater Sun: “I sort of like his stuff, I guess.” Unbelievable! Even in those turbulent late-teen years, he was well on his way to fame and fortune.

By his twenty-first birthday, we’d come to know him as a super-smart, super-cool, super-connected megastar whose every stroke of the pen caused convulsions throughout the world.

As the years passed, his work heated up. Book after best-selling book proclaimed his much-ballyhooed opinions on art, culture, philosophy and love. He reigned guru-like from the verdant semi-swamps of Florida’s Sun Coast. His poems caused women to faint. As a person he came across cool, like a breeze on a flower. However, once he had us he got hot, and we could just feel his power.

As a literary figure, he came a-knockin’ at our door, clutching bouquets and heart-shaped boxes of candy. He shouted his love for us. He offered us everything we’ve always wanted, and more. He sparkled with something special, something sexy, simply seductive and sweet. Of course, we let him in.

Once inside he proceeded to batter us with kindness. He killed us with our own joy. He hurt us in profound ways. He came in our minds.

So goes the historical lore concerning Michael Andros, author of the accompanying poems. From romantic realms, sunny and wind-swept, his words flutter before us. He tells of wonderful things, all rainbow-y and dense with desire — and then Boom, right in the gut.

We readers, we consumers collectively suffered the Stockholm Syndrome, all of us loving our tormentors. So, we absorbed Andros’s poems like drugs; by osmosis we assumed their essence. And why not? Over and over again the same lines shout, word after word in loops of familiarity, each time new like kaleidoscopic soundscapes echoing in our skulls.

Andros hails from the west coast of Florida. Like the sunshine he avoids, he glows. I think chicks like that, plus the fact that he has a huge dick. And, he’s got a reputation as a hard-fucking kind of guy, because he’s very tall. In fact, just a few weeks ago he fucked my girlfriend, and she’s still alive, so I guess he’s clean, too. That’s good.

Once upon a time he did art for EXIT Magazine, a Science Fiction-ish politically-incorrect pop culture rag. Michael’s stuff was stark and unrelenting. Bound broads appropriated from porn mags hung alongside tyrants, philosophers and careening ICBMs. Then he did a few interviews for the Rock mag Seconds, covering mostly fetish-fueled Industrial Punk stuff.

Once, he tied up a girl and whipped her pussy for hours. Or was it days? Another time he did the feather-on-the-clit thing for what seemed like forever. Unbelievable!

In his 2059 study of criminal aesthetics, Art That Killed, researcher Robert Luther wrote, “I observed the guy in action. He actually did conjure up his ideas from an old well in which the devil lived. He really did steal inspiration from aliens light-years more cool than us. He even took lollipops out of the mouths of babies.”

Andros’s poems are pregnant with loveliness, dense with dark splendor, and challenging. Simply put, they are like the songs of happy insects, horny as hell, on clear, cloudless days. Very nice!


George Petros
Brooklyn, May 2007