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His Wife, The Painter

Rating: 3.0
There are sketches on the walls of men and women and ducks,
and outside a large green bus swerves through traffic like
insanity sprung from a waving line; Turgenev, Turgenev,
says the radio, and Jane Austin, Jane Austin, too.
'I am going to do her portrait on the 28th, while you are
at work.'
He is just this edge of fat and he walks constantly, he
fritters; they have him; they are eating him hollow like
a webbed fly, and his eyes are red-suckled with anger-fear.
He feels hatred and discard of the world, sharper than
his razor, and his gut-feel hangs like a wet polyp; and he
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COMMENTS
Edward Kofi Louis 13 June 2018
Sketches on the walls! ! The Painter. Thanks for sharing this poem with us.
0 0 Reply
Glen Kappy 13 June 2018
In large part this feels like a found poem, lines taken or literally cut from books or newspapers and assembled together. The closing line however might suggest the circus of disparate thoughts that race through our minds when we lie in bed sleepless. For me it’s so idiosyncratic that feelingwise I stay on its surface. -GK
1 0 Reply
Kumarmani Mahakul 13 June 2018
An imageful inscription has been made. Beautiful poem.
1 0 Reply
Robert Murray Smith 13 June 2018
A finely crafted write that is image filled.
1 0 Reply
Adam Holmes 06 April 2009
why are half of Buk's peoms on here incomplete? should be a crime
5 0 Reply

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