Looney Bin Blues (and Reds)

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,  is the bees’ knees –
really seems to know his trade –
his diagnosis – more reliablely 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
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,
Mark Rothko  I ain’t.




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