Above the heroin and the
whores, the sex shops
and the Van Goghs,
we float high atop a Ferris wheel
on brilliant waves of pink, blue and neon orange;
and breathless
and the Van Goghs,
we float high atop a Ferris wheel
on brilliant waves of pink, blue and neon orange;
and breathless
we hover there, rising, but
longing to descend.
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Always the blade hovered
over his head,
ominous and foreboding,
a shadow that changed the
shape of things.
He saw apparitions in the
corners of his mind.
In his sleep, he saw the
faces of the dead.
There is money in nightmares
and pornography
but not in poetry.
The oldest woman in the
world said
she once met Vincent van
Gogh
and that he was disagreeable
and drunk.
But why talk of that?
His work will not be
forgotten.
We walk in a room and there
he is, looking back
at us, more like a ghost
than a man.
