An oldish codger from Newfoundland
thought to pleasure himself with his hand;
but though he was bent on
achieving a hard-on,
things simply didn't go as he planned!
The old codger, upon circumspection,
knew t'was futile to get an e***tion.
With a dong so flaccid,
limp, flabby and vapid,
he knew he'd need a doctor's inspection.
Furrows End is where he rests,
Beneath the moonlight in his vest,
Eyes sewn shut so he never sees,
Mouth taped shut so no one can here his pleas.
Mumbling bag of bones is he,
Once lived by the raging sea,
A hermit of the oldish days,
Now lays in this coffin where he decays.
He once had a heart,
But it was so violently torn apart,
His soul long since taken away,
Leaving nothing inside on that cold Novemeber day.
He sleeps now beneath the dead moon,
Hoping to be awoken someday soon,
Awoken by the breath of life,
Before he loses his sanity,
To the reapers scythe.
The picture is of an oldish man sitting on a hard chair in front of an Edsel on which is the painting of a fire. The room is concrete with some brushes and paints next to the Edsel and one coat hanging on the wall.
Fire Painting
The bare room speaks of remorseless times
of few, fickle buyers and assaulted health
The cockroaches of poverty swarm in dark corners
and scurry out at night to feast on his pennies
The invisible mist of despair seeps from filthy concrete floor
to caper, jest and pluck at his threadbare coat of fading pride.
Unquenchable spirit flowed from soul
Brush of wood and hair became wand
The dull, stained canvass smote with light
The flickering flames grew with every stroke
Memories of friends and laughter like twigs
Form the crown from whence everything springs
The red Winter Sun finds the passion of Life
Velvet Summer mornings gyre with joy and light
Anger and desire colour dance like sprites
Fused all together barely held by the frame
His fire of Spirit banishes the chill.
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