.

It has been found that given enough time
failure will find this destined loser
lurking in gallery tints
and water color fault lines

semi gloss replaced by flat

Painting abstract nothings
on a canvas made of words
Broken brushes stain the existing
balance with a voice that collects the remnants

speaking tarnished silver when silence should be golden

Pop art wastelands of dotted balloons
float above the ground where his face falls,
shamed and hidden, in plain sight
with eyes holding quarters of bygone years

melting clocks keep time with his idiocy

Impressionists laugh at his existence
in muted tone chuckles and turpentine snickers
Stretched on easels of dislodged glances
with splattered smocks tied in double knots

one size fits all

This palette of mixed memories
resting on mainstream notions, waits
for the end is sure to come
finding him alone with an empty imagination

and nothing but drop cloth dreams

.

White Cliffs of Dover now sponsored in daydreams
Reading each billboard that rusts on the sky
Checking a map though it’s for the wrong city
She sends a smile to the wink of his eye

Overhead cords hang to signal a stopping
Pulled like a kite that is fighting a breeze
Setting his watch as if time is most urgent
Tiny the gesture to put her at ease

Anxious she strums atop metal and leather
Songs in her head dance at half past the price
Suddenly yanks as the trees are enormous
Grabbing her bag she does not ask him twice

****, screams the brakes and some passengers flying
Coffee and biscuits collide in the aisle
Fixing her hair like a debutante princess
Waits on the door and then exits in style

A tip of his hat to the fatherly captain
Treading deliberate, the stairs leading down
Adjusting his jacket lapels till they’re even
Spun, is her skirt as a fine evening gown

Coughing a hairball, the old engine rumbles
Sigh, moan the bi-folds directed to close
Noticing now that her left hand is empty
Lifting a stone from the shoulder, she throws

Causing a crack in the bug spattered windshield
The bus driver digs for his insurance card
Grumbles a curse word, his bible forsaken
Just a small pebble and not tossed so hard

She stands at the portal awaiting admission
Watches each eye as she fumbles about
Cheers to herself when her fingers meet plaster
Knows all too well it is no time to shout

Apologies gifted like Christmas in August
Promising beer with a head made of foam
When she appears on the exit step lower
In her left hand she now clutches her gnome

Into the lobby of lemon cake ceilings
Chandeliers glisten like ***** champagne
A tap on the bell wakes the concierge sleeping
“That was my dream!” comes his groggy complain

Currency shoveled the counter of granite
Not yet a bride nor a non-shaven groom
Still it is felt like a pink feathered boa
Lovebirds want cages, these two need a room

Holding his hand as they shuffle the staircase
Ornate the copper reflecting her grace
Wearing a smile that is sheepish and woolen
What waits the night paints the look on her face

He calls the bed, fears his ankles are swollen
She shuts the door to their quarters superb
Then slightly opened for placard replacement
Written in English reads, Do Not Disturb