this
ain't the reincarnation of Bob Dylan's whorehouse
Vincent
wasn’t a cowardly lion or lazy dock worker
he was a seizure holding himself up against the
19th century sunlight
the
sun’s not yellow, it’s lactose intolerant
and
so are the prostitutes when you hand them part of your ear
familiarly
known as Sien she didn’t care what was coming to her
she
already knew how black it got, she had crows in her teeth
wheat
cut down by Vincent’s scythe paint brush as he stared into the sun
blind,
colors come thicker, which ones are our gods?
even
a caged painter can change the world when everything’s burning around him,
there goes the starlight again flickering rings
dreams
of Saturn pummeled his memory like a pugilist from another century
we
resist in vain when pushing against the Second Industrial Revolution
but
it’s clear that Millet is waiting and he never lived on potatoes
gleaning
is not for the birds as the peasants do their damnedest to stay alive
including
praying, but those are deaf ears; did I mention I was bleeding?
it’s
alright ma, I’m only tracing the back breaking words of others more dedicated
to lifting themselves out of squalor
this
thing got teeth, but the weeds got me and I want to stare at a wall and hope I
remember all the cuts in pink elephants on parade
stucco
saints remind me of a lackadaisical time when suicide wasn’t a calling and the
clock on the wall didn’t mock me like Churchill at a Golden Corral
we
occasionally stumble on truth out there in the colors, at least we might
at
least we might occasionally stumble on truth when we dance with the yellow
sunflower ghosts in the midday of another inspired breakthrough
ghosts
burning in the white light of an interrupted brain, punctuation
marks
prodding us on to live a life dipped in the mirrors of God, it’s heartbeat
throbbing inside the ear the same way a bullet
ricochets
for all to see as an unhealthy painter eats lead and hallucinates a cypress
Christ
death
for the night now brother
death
death death
No comments:
Post a Comment