The painting

The art of work we hang so well
it stretches the imagination
borne of thus
grave in some serious manner of delusion
pretty as a picture, it's said
'all things to all men' not to tell
a woman I am not sure of as she bleeds
with perfect mind it passes and hangs in place
cracks hidden here and there
with money to spare it stares at all that pass
the blossom from a spring tree
a view of yonder dell
an artist's view of hell or boots
the mollusc in its shell
a bra across a mantlepiece
or breasts we would like
the shiny car with warts
a club that lets out a life for the meek and mild and bitter
dreams of Androcles and a thorn of a precocious plum tree
or Mars and stars that permeate that darkness
that non-existent world we let go by
that will cherish what we have not

Friends

A memory serves as right or wrong
only in madness we fight back in words or song
on deserted shores the heads walk past us zealously
to take what we have made of nothing
a million faces down to earth, subscribers to a heavenly way
another  head dying to grow the flower for my lapel
a promise away from a corny heaven or balmy hell

a time to relent and sell my goods of worthless pride
sod's earth it looks to me up close, a bloody veil to hide

death is nearer to earth and hell is just a name

how some run to meet the garden of delights there
a bit between their teeth all bright and cocky with it

some  life ! commended into a shell of pain 
but matters not ..as all in hand or bush are far away
my feathered friends now eat at my table, .and we are well