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I don't seem to be able to write these days, nor paint. Here's a try.

This bewildering place we call home

Every night he solemnly returns
to the Kodak coloured kaleidoscope,
to the uncut wild grass sea of gestured days
where poets and painters mingle with arches on fire,
where urgency finds itself in bed with counter clocks,
lightning the city with yet another, lost century.
The old capitals of Europe beckon with old streets
where blood still has but one warm colour
and heaven's circular ground floor entrance
with its brass elevators runs horizontally,
where big familiar rooms embrace old familiar people,
dressed in psychedelic rags and a faded glory knowledge
of fountains and a kind of common carton care belonging,
where whispers in the beds of those ancient poets and painters,
naked but for the uncloaked wisdom of the one eye,
is absorbed by all the cancerous cities of wanting more,
flayed by the uncut underground trains
running through the mystery veins
of this bewildering place we call home.

Poetry by Bob
Read 559 times
Written on 2007-05-29 at 21:51