To paint
To paint
There’s lots of broken people in my broken town.
There’s the tiny broken child with a shoddy cross eyed frown.
Podgy little bakers, sell to women the shape of round.
There’s little much that happens in my broken town.
My next door neighbour’s whinging at the box upon the wall.
Her mother lays paralytic, breathing and nothing more.
Dreams and bones and shattered cogs, every muscle all but tore.
To live in this broken town is a peculiar type of war.
The man of their house, he vacated long ago,
regaling all who would listen, “…of a journey across the ethereal world…”
Instead, he ended up across the road with julie Simmons, a petite fifteen year old girl.
There’s the barmen who hasn’t broke-even in this century.
He can’t ask for the bill when his clients possess no dignity.
The patrons who dwell within, what of their stories and their well lived testimony?
Why, nobody can listen when their lost in distorted thoughts floating on an unknown sea…
The scrap man enjoys his shit upon his ivory throne.
It’s when he exits his little cubicle, he knows he’s all alone.
Yet when the day is done, never does he groan.
To live a day full of joy, these broken people have never known.
Outrage at a public incident, spreads across the gossip rumour mill.
Their town is unmoved, information is this places swill.
Come half past eight, the town is frozen still.
Because to go out at night would only make the broken people ill.
Then there’s little Bobby C,
who plays covers of songs he’s heard on tv.
Never has he had a brain to call his own,
records his shaky videos on a stolen camera phone.
There’s also his pal, large Ronnie D
who’s never done anything but smoke homemade dope religiously.
No way could he care less, his sister’s turned to prostitution
This is not isolated incident, families all over
have lost, if they ever had, a moral constitution!
Even the towns politician, his misses, a honky tonk princess
when asked a direct question, the lines upon his brow only read distressed
Perennially caught in moments of curse, his own distorted kinda hex
repeating, ‘Nothing short of a nuke could solve any of this mess’
Conversely, this town had shadows, spirits and persons of duality
the precious ones who with open eyes really did in fact see
Yet their opinions rarely materialised, never were they uttered
even they know which side their head is buttered!
And pretty soon they become all the same
retired into a broken life, ever-willing to celebrate the inane.
