Same Old Same Old
In the lack of misunderstanding:
The self-portrait.
Here in this misrepresentation;
Where the slapdash nature
of
Meaning trips and stumbles
Under its own feet –
Colour of the eye in an external
world
Devoid of words – sounds
phonetic
Just existing in some
corner…
The portrait is the fictional
image:
The single frame animation
cel.
In this misnomer of life.
Lights thin refraction
dances
All around and all across the
Sparkling night – The artist’s
Paint stained fingers hold
As he munches on chips
And a steaming mug of
tea.
As the psyche of the night
Swallow up the last
visitors
Of the pub crash and bash
And trip and fall and stumble
On their way home.
The Red Car
There, the red car: an
absolute
Indicating something unseen
An undertaking that cannot be
ignored
Written in the mind – that has to
come.
Mankind has dropped its kith
and
Kin in discovering another
Type, another token there is no hope
here
The grey space, waiting to fill
up.
The once colourful no dowdy
grey
Takes the shortest distance
too
He sees the Magi coming over
alone
Accusation as he is to aeroplane
noise
The red car a mass
symbol
Of everything and nothing
Staves off rust for another day
And another – and – another
Sharp dressed man
Lined order cut a sharp a suit
Who was this epithet?
Made from cosmic
enterprise
And a turned eye
Or a blind eye, perhaps.
Never the loneliest guy.
Yet fortune favours
Those who treat gently
Yet boldly. The print remains
Across the lines of ease.
Pork pie hat strange yet
apt.
Seen in every street
From Bexley to bleak
Berlin
To the Brassy Bronx.
A certain smile that
asserted:
Anything can go
And must, to impress
upon
The outer reaches of the
universe
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