Poetry

Tuesday, 24 November 2015

The Painter

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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