4 June 2011

Despatches from the Edge

His suffering spews onto the canvass.
Heart-stopping reds, ochres, oranges
seared through the centre with eye-bright magentas.
Breath-taking lines crossed expressing a life lived in hard-edged extremis.

Wretched up from his soul,
it hangs in isolation
decorating chambers' hall.
And beneath, acceptability snakes through blinking architraves
opening and shutting as the briefs, gowned and wigged in black and white,
circumnavigate the truth,
tie it up in knots of pink to make a case.

They file into court,
join men from unfamiliar lands
kept tidily apart 
by architect plan,
by carved edge
of box, bench and stand.
And in the dock: a solitary man.

 The privileged whigs 
own priceless originals
kept in the dark 
(their value quadruples).
The jurors take pride in
paper-thin copies of Greats;
flayed nerves caged
against the flock of suburban wall

Selves defined in these extreme endeavours of another.

In print, the human tragedy reduced to rant:
Shockwaves from this demonising tirade
force distances the size of deserts.
Dissassociation to disguise
a dirty little truth:
who's in this picture?

But we deny
any link or tie
and hang this monster out to dry.

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