The man in the mustard shirt
Stares through the crowd
Showering them with
Well measured words
And sardonic smiles

Proped up by his lady in red
I wish he'd let her sing more
If I saw him in the pub
Tightly knit curls
Resting on his pronounced brow

If I saw him in the pub
I'd allow him to purchase
One half of pale ale for me
He can do what he likes
With the other half
-

Patrick Lawrence was too late for the H and M super sale
He ended up with a turquoise shirt and sunblushed salmon chino
Combination which doesn't work on myriad levels

He played the bass though
Redeeming himself through the medium of song
He is almost forgiven

Enid turned her wheels
A red flash through
Luscious green
Across the wall of corns

In what felt like
No time at all
The gabble reconvened
Inside the hessian on bread street

Taiyo and Darcy
Evoked the Spanish coast
Fresh faces following
More mature fingers

Frankie and Debs
Move us from Spanish shores
To Antarctica, with penguins
Brian and David

Then comes 'The Man'
Four men , four beautiful men
To play us out and
We don't stand a chance with them now

Pablo went to the circus
The lithographs give it away
Unless of course
He had the knack
Of producing a place from scratch
An imaginary circus

The positive and negative space
Silhouette circus
Of hoops and bears
Gymnasts on chairs
The blank faced audience


He also did ******* bullfights
In 1946
His blood splattered face leering
Over his lithography

Sat in a room with Henri Matisse
You must have many questions for me
I said
Henri smiled

At that very moment    snap      -Gyula Halasz-
His Hungarian walked in
I dropped my tea
She dropped her dress

Henri drew
I drew a blank

I watched the part time poet
Warble

I watched the part time poet
Drone

I watched the part time poet
Get the **** off his chest

I watched the part time poet
Walk home

I watched the part time poet
Greet his wife

I watched the part time poet
Undress

I watched the part time poet
Pour a glass of wine

I watched the part time poet
De-stress

I watched the part time poet
Close the curtains

I hear the part time poet
Call the feds

The part time poet seems
Somewhat displeased

Officers, there's a part time poet
In my flowers beds

The uniformed man who handles me
Is a part time poet too

Now I can go full time
Got enough on my hands
At least two hundred yards
From you