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Semana Santa

cold sun and green skies flying

when you pass this way I know I'm dying

not just typing ceaseless words

I don't make this noise to curse

my sense of apathy, abstracted commentary

in tumultuous waves tossed up aplenty

you don't know the words I'm slaying

I don't have to because no one's paying

to me the slightest bit of attention

so bend and twist you force of dimension


forgive him if he drinks too much

better he drinks than he thinks too much

this painting wraps a finger of hope

the best of things fits me to cope

well maybe that's so, I hear

selling you wares unawares where you dare

were you really stringing along that line

and hanging them apart sublime?

I never realised the cold sun and skies

where always so green as your eyes


time flies slowly but sand falls quick

through the eye and heralds a new day sick

adorning a family neighbourhood

acute in folding paper, card, canvas and wood

troubled with experience of sand and blood

caskets of vermillion and yellow oxide

trembling fingers holler to one side

retreat in my harness now solidly blue

In all honesty what now would you

have me do?


hills of suede and icing sugar

spread with palette knife, fried in butter

the fisherman's catch in tethered rock

tableau of stone in shattered shock

in vitriolic fervour of frustrated happening

under rotted bridges and ragged scattering

going internal please curdle and jam

that passage through arterial dam

in muddy flows your concrete complexion

drops from a veldt of absent affection


catedral sits in sickening rock

borne on the hands of a quivering flock

to buy a place in heaven with Him

and sidestep that unholy din

too late to know what can't be known

when you've realised you've turned to stone

the route to safety already blown

away and yet seek tether and groan

fastidiously you do shudder and enter

that contract with the absent mentor

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