by Nick Gisburne
The smoke becomes a shadow, then a man
He strides across a street he does not see
A key, from when the universe began
Unlocks a small apartment, 15B
His gift, his art, discolours every wall
Where space, where sense, where sanity permits
To most, to men, a disconcerting scrawl
But more, from where the painter-prophet sits
From here, a thousand windows on the world
Display a cold kaleidoscope of hate
The dreams, the visions, layers cracked and curled
Obsessions he was born to celebrate
He paints the rage of everything he sees
Humanity’s incurable disease
