Ripped curtains,
angry clowns
a bottle of absinthe
on the table stands
' that stuff rots your brain'
he says & she smiles
& pours herself a little
the angry clowns
try in vain to mend the curtains
he knocks over
the bottle of absinthe
& she raises an eyebrow,
fixes her garter
outside, the cardboard moon
plays with the dark,
they kiss,
a youthful painter paints them
having paid
for his latest brush
as usual
with *** & lies
a white lily in a vase
looks on
silently

Artists wait in the darkness
Of an unlit light, creating
In colours,
Using what they hold.
They give us
Red for veins,
Green for eyes,
White for space.
Theiy grow dim
In the wings,
But must carry on
For silent patrons,
To release the struggle.
They ply art in the dark,
Waiting for one ray.
As natural philosophers
We ask, Why must I create?
We know how monsters
Loose control
When life takes on a life of its own;
As does all of creation.

Of a night on a battered red leather sofa
It's moved with us three times
It sits in a room with a broken bay window
And we sit on it too
And we sit on it too

Drinking yellow anise from mismatched glasses
With ice, not warm water
Singing stories, spinning yarns with broken bottles
Of girls with leopard-print hands
And the straw man in the moon
The straw man in the moon.

The cord hangs on the wall:
A symbol, but not symbolic
As chords rise, break off and fall
All a sham, but not shambolic
A sham, but not shambolic.

Swapping tales and anecdotes of cars parked between cake stalls
And days with names that don't suit them
People dying for causes they don't understand
And war is an island; a land hyperbolic
A Green land, a war land; unplanned hyperbolic.

Linguistics are twisted and brass tales are dropped
A cork is unwrapped from the web where it popped
But the darkness is rising, the hours are ticking
The side is hitched up so we all know we're doomed.
We hear children singing in the guitar strings,
Their screeches rising as they fall,
Our speeches diving as they fall.

And speaking of speeches, he says, a performance is mine
But in France, man... in France the markets are open
And the fields of Provence roll down to the menhirs of Carnac
And Brocéliande lies to us all,
And Brocéliande lies to us all.

There is another mikeˈlandʒelo
on his back
somewhere in Bow,
painting skies which shine and glow,
I know
because
I've seen him.

Requiem for a dream
Unhinged upon the seams
Glimmer, glam & gleam
But he
"Don't know what it means"
He shone so bright
Gave all his light
He fell from heavens grace.

Its dark inside this place.
He only sees her face.
a heart not lost;
Misplaced.

It is the craziest of minds that cannot sleep

It tries to forget
To write of it is madness
But still it does
It tries not to see
To draw of it is madness
But still it does

There is no rationale for remembrance

It tries not to feel
To love it is madness
But still it does
It tries not to desire
To touch it is madness
But still it does

It is the destruction of the standards of dignity

It tries poise
To cry is madness
But still it does
It tries life
To **** itself is madness
But still it does

It is the craziest of minds that hurts itself

It tries to accept
To reject is madness
But still it does
It tries to conform
To deviate is madness
But still it does

We smoke by the canal,
getting high;
lamenting our lack of a decent broken home,
British hip-hop in the static of the upper classes.
They're doing more with their time,
old analogue transmissions, sleep-filled afternoons;
a paperback revolution, a snail's pace progression,
those ancient roads of forgotten travel,
the routes we had given up too soon.

I am too impatient now,
seeking The High
over inner peace, those new-found techniques
in favour of old habits; instantaneous retreat.
It's okay, this interludal existence, high-wire dependency
for a feeling ill-placed in sober routine.
We give up on chasing women
to chase heights we know we can never reach.

We smoke some more,
an artist's tomb;
the coffee table piano, old acoustics
with malformed necks, waning ligament of string.
Let's fill the emptied social scene,
appear red-eyed in the daylight,
pawing for a comfortable release.
We talk about hitting those unsung chords,
then we roll another, another,
until we cannot sing anymore.

Two escapists converge
to hustle the prison;
get high on the prospect
of getting high in the future.
We smoke by the canal,
feeling low, unstrung.
The out-of-tune white man blues,
pleading for acceptance
from the crowds we love to criticise.