Auckland Poetry.com

Before wine is drunk

We are going to an art exhibition this afternoon, but first we have to
buy groceries, cabbage, leek, bread, margarine, milk and tomatoes.
You can’t eat a picture even if it displays an orange beside a banana,
“I will give you “The Scream” for a boiled potato and a slice or two
of yesterday’s loaf,” the poor artist said. I had no time to cook, gave
him ten shilling and hung the painting in the toilet; it was stolen by
a guest who needed a leak. He sold it for a million; the painter got
his photo in the newspaper and was never hungry again, I have a pale
square on the bathroom wall. Günter Grass, I always think of horses
when mentioning his name, paints still-life and his yellow in lemons
is stunning, I drink tea with citron for weeks after seeing his work.
I have no original paintings on my walls. But many prints, and that’s
ok, I just like art, but dislike fake experts who think they know what
the painter thought of when putting wonder on his blank canvass.

A litre of wine

The wine in the glass is full the red liquid arches the slightest
movement and it will spill over and run down the stem like
a bleeding stomach wound trickling down a petrified leg.
I bent down and inhaled the wine no spillage and I wondered
why it is so many people, in fact more and more drink beer
that is no longer a natural brew is it because we are no longer
a part of nature and seek and feel more at ease with man made
products and we will soon have a diet that fits with the work
we are doing, say if you want a double cheeseburger with fries
you first have to work shuffling coal for twelve hours,

but if you only want to sit writing a simple poem about
the country side low fat yogurt for you; if you have written
the poem under the influence of a steak you will be censured,
made to walk in the park and tell everyone you’re a crock of
empty of gold empty of anything a modern society such as
networking banalities and get people to buy what they don’t
need; men get medals and titles for doing that. So what do
I care, but it annoys me that I end up buying a soap which
name I have seen on the television and smell like everybody
else, yeah…isn’t that just nice?