Van Gogh


I fled through Vincent's eyes
out into french fields of light,
where corns golden oil caught
and burst the dust of canvas,

his brush splashed the sun
burning oil birds into cinders,
the dark flitter of feather ash
raining wing's down on Vincent,

once fearing their black flaps
he chased away flocks of crow,
but two dabs of bird escaped him
and set to pecking out his gold,

until he hungered death
rather than the diet of life,
unpacked a fresh revolver
that finally surprisingly fired,

pushing a bullet hotter
than a bulls cock
into his cooked belly
of paint and cognac,

later he died in sleep
his bed of white fire sailing away
on the tear-sea of a brother's weeps
love's bright wake left swirling out
behind his life's dark surface.



John G.Hall(C)2005