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Painted Poems

The Asylum

In the asylum
A man takes off his clothes
And runs
By day he holds his head and sighs
He says nothing
He has taken a vow of silence
He is depressed
They think.

Two sisters play scrabble
With butter-beans
Their words are not as they seem
A woman tries to shriek down the walls
Of her mind
It's a real bind.

Most are out of sight, unkempt, unclean
Pumped north-east with morphine
Attendants lack patience
Patients lack attention
A man carries with him a can of pilchards
He claims it is his heart.

Outside, all is normal:

Little Irish men sit on horses
In coloured clothes
They cart the animals from place to place
People point and laugh.

Some put on their clothes, and run
Around the block
Around the park
Around the world
Some take off their clothes and swim
Across the pool
Across the channel
Around the world
Basket-cases ride balloons
Up, down
Around the world
Man and his pot-bound roots.

Others crouch in tin boxes
Made by Ferrari
Rolling about the bitumen

A director embezzles funds
Goes to prison and writes a book
He is set free
Then embezzles funds
That is nature.

A right-honourable somebody stands
Says nothing. Nobody listens.
Everybody disagrees
I blame my neighbour
People say what they believe
And what they don't believe
It happens all the time
Some can't remember what they thought
So they make it up.
Others choose not to make a choice.

Bricks are piled high
To keep off rain
We sit inside, behind the pane
Waiting for the day to be happy
Behold! It's time to change another nappy.

Satnav shows the way upstairs
The only route is via Moscow
That is nurture.

Others tweet the latest news
I do confess I am confused
It is the colour of their shoes
They're loving life
Living the dream
All is not as it seems.

Models stand in windows
Too miserable to smile
(It's all the bitter bile)
Coz 'Nothing tastes as good as being thin.'

Fashion is a sack
Ideal for today's sack-race
In other japes
The chairs are removed, one by one
In a basement a man lodges
Bullets in a revolving gun
Reads the sign.
But the man cannot read.

Somewhere an anthem plays
They drape a medal around a woman's neck
She's thrown a stone further than the rest
She has a beard
And everybody cheers.

We all very much await the next event
It's stick throwing.

Bricks are piled
In artistic places
To a string of impassive faces.

Sardines stop at stations
Eating sandwiches
Filled with sardines
Fed on hormones
And mashed sardines.
It's raining
And everybody's blaming.

Still, they sing
On the telly
In the bath
In the nut-house
In homeless shelters everywhere
Some judge, some jeer, some stare
Few care.

A blue and white ball of rock
Orbits a small orange
Ball of gas
It's a good flaming game
If you know the rules.

Still, they laugh
For the world's a problem none can solve
Or so we're told
A humdrum conundrum
A Gordian knot
A blight
A blot.


In the asylum
A man takes off his clothes, and runs
By day he holds his head and cries
He says nothing
He has taken a vow of silence
He is depressed
They think.

Ladies play scrabble with butter-beans
Nothing, it seems, is quite as it seems
A woman attempts to shriek down the walls
Of her heart
A man carries with him a can of pilchards
Claiming it is his new start.

When all is said and done
There's nothing new below the sun
That pale, monotonous drum
There is no magic potion
Just a hell of a commotion
But come...the fun
Has only just begun

Artist & Ogre
Frog's Ballad
Mountain Summit
Mystery Thee
Poet Prophets
A Riddle
University Night Out
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