Looney bin blues (and reds)

nurse
slaps some gizmo
above my eyebrow –
don’t know if she’s
sticking on a sale-by date
or checking carnal degrees
the doctor [however]
he’s more than clever
he’s  the bees’ knees –
really seems to know his trade –
his diagnosis – more reliably made –
is based on my colouring books,
whether or not I stay inside the line –
you’re doing fine, he tells me
I repress a tremendous  hehehe
I’m told “the hanging”
is to be next week
and I freak
because for a long instant
I think I’m done for –
but it’s only the
vernissage they’re on about
I try not to pout
as I tell them
        [more Terry Jones than Byrne-]
but I don’t want to be a painter…
I just want to learn to colour
inside the contours
gold fish
and
red balloons
        [like all the ordinary loons]
I’d dance en pointe if I could
or carve holy statues
out of dark seasoned wood
or sing one helluva mean Pagliacci
           [or play maracas with the mariachi?]
just don’t ask me to paint
’cause, listen doc,
Caravaggio I ain’t.
.
.
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