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Today I walked to the park and back
And saw suburbia rearranged into dizzying distortions
All the trees had a purplish tint
And on the grass, I saw multicoloured light reflecting off melting dew
When I got home
I attacked all the imagery with a dagger to reshape reality
And a blank mirror to recreate the world in my head.

The world that was quiet is humming again
I hear choirs of crickets and choral basslines
Cacophonous and ecstatic in the constant confusion
The dull concrete is shot open with marquee moonlight
Indulgence pouring out, free-flowing like communion
And painted onto canvases like rain on a car window
Daydreams and delusions are ice cream melting, sticky and sap-like on your chin
Clouds pixelate with diamond edges
Voices ring out in a flurry
And there isn't a soul in sight.

So I breathe in the air
And let all the sounds and smells and limitations of reality colour my imagination once again
Daydreamed delusions and nightmarish reality are one
Filaments in the vibrant violence
Until the summer fades away again.
spring is coming
I gaze the wheat field
gusts of wind erupt and impede to the very end
crows take flight towards the blood red Sun
he calls them back
rests his weary hands and tired eyes
before the long walk into town
his silhouette fades as I awaken
to view the captured image that hangs
from my wall
the perfect lucid dream
Nigdaw Dec 2021
king of colour
a whisper
into the future
unheard in his time
died in the pursuit
of painting a world
in his head
visions of oil
on canvas windows
into his soul
sorry your work
is for the rich and famous
not for everyone
as it was made
Khaab Jul 2021
"Artists...artists are like butterflies...
They have delicate hearts
But this society can't handle them..."
My mother answered as I told her
about Vincent van Gogh...
The Starry Night painter
was once said to be happy in London ...
With a rainbow heart and sky mind
He drenched the canvas with his emotions
People unaware of this legend
put him in an asylum...
'cause the decieved Vincent cut his ear lobe!
But he paints and brushes
were still there...just like his brother.
He was 37... when voices were all over his mind
It was not easy to stop them...
So he picked up the gun...
And the bullet went straight to that golden heart
I wonder how many colors died that day....?
But I could have told you, Vincent
This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you..."
                                                                                              - Don Mclean (Vincent)
Elaenor Aisling Mar 2021
The wind's fingers reached into his collar,
pinching him with the cold
With another stroke of the paintbrush
The blue mixed with the gold

The walkers who ventured o’re the shore
Stared at the mumbling man
Whose teeth were stained with yellow
And drank to calm shaking hands

The burning lights blurred in the water
Pooling refractions and ripples
He captured the heavenly bodies
As the canvas he covered in stipples

Azure he blended with the indigo,
canary and honey and flax
The cool and the warm melded in one
candle and moon, wane and wax

Soft falls the light in the harbor
The stillness of night overcast
In the river he cleans off his brushes
And turns round for home at the last.
Norman Crane Oct 2020
Let's lose our minds amongst the olive trees
Labyrinth of oiled imagination
Twirl like falling leaves / falling to our knees
in unbalanced joy and veneration
of ourselves. For there is nobody else
but us; there is no other time but now,
Red flowers bloom. A blue shadow propels
a still landscape into being somehow
fluid. Timelessly we swim, wet within
each brush stroke branch and painted wave of wild
emancipation—to forget the din
of the wretched asylum. Vincent smiled:
Dive too deep and you shall go insane,
The olive grove remains the other side of the pane.
Inspired by Vincent van Gogh's painting of the same name.
RCurtis Oct 2020
A starry night he did proclaim
with hues and stokes so untamed,
he layed on with palette knife.

The twirls and swirls of gold
above the dormant village old,
despite his own inner strife.

Stars played cheerfully around,
restful hues on slumbering town
as though, sleeping with his wife.

While the sun awaited to arise
shadows of wheat black to his eyes,
he turned the heavens into wildlife.

Locked in his cold dismal room,
he painted not of his true gloom,
but of a dreamy, wonderous life.
To favourite my painting and artist, The Starry Night by painter Vincent van Gogh. Painted in June 1889, from the east-facing window of his asylum room at Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, he awaited the sunrise.
Norman Crane Sep 2020
A billiard table imprints its damp shadow
on a yellow wooden floor. The game still
unbegun, mere fragment of the sorrow
felt by the patrons whose wilted heads will
still be here tomorrow, if tomorrow comes.
Red walls distended by burning lamps
and burned out hearts beating blood through ear drums:
Reverie to the night god /   Dreaming tramps
drowning in their heads in lakes of absinthe
color of the ceiling better than being
awake but indefinitely absent.
The lamps blink, eyes floating, speak all-seeing:
Vincent, let us meet before you entreat
the crows out of your head into the wheat.
Inspired by Vincent van Gogh's painting The Night Café.
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