The
Painter
He
was a crazy painter
Making
crazy paving of the pavements
He
painted crazy brushstokes
Of
the crazy government
Who
left him empty pockets
In
his crazy pants
He
filled his hands with bristling brushes
Like
the mazy rushes of his random rants
The
Lazy Lazarus street which lays half dead
At
his feet,
He
brings back to life with his dancing soles
His
shoeless taps that run through his pictures
And
drain his paints are the street’s life blood
He
wandered the zodiac circles around the platz
Meeting
bears abating, Dogs who were a mating
And
bulls dancing on their heels
Archers
hunting ghosts
He
drew looks from city goers
Painted
their eyes like diamond stars
Stuffy
old ladies in thatched hats
Whose
opinions he dissolved into
Linseed
oil and turpentine jars
Their
prejudice like jaundice
Yellows
their features
Whose
roots were in the bitterness
Over
beauty they had lost
He
gave them it back in his pictures
And
all was beautiful again
On
Lazarus street
As
he walked there
leaving
his frames in the square
Resting
on the shoe trodden floor
Under
foot his masterpieces
Are
obscured
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