7 X 7 X 7

She sings like a sixties black
soul diva but flashes her
blonde pussy as they try to
make her go to rehab she
says fuck off and gets a new
tattoo with her lover's name
spelt wrong but her kids ain't his.

Birds grow on trees as thick as
fruit and fall into the clouds
when ripe. There is a fable
that child Jesus fashioned birds
from clay and flew them like kites
without strings. But gravity
is not fooled by religion.

Picasso bends the bull's head
back into a bicycle.
In terms of invention, which
came first: sculpture or the wheel?
Are we not the human race
rather than the human art
form? Leave Turner in his grave.

The art of unfinished lines;
where the painting stops is where
the brush begins. The colour
of the artist's unwashed hand
contaminates the canvas
and the scene is but a smeared
remnant on an oily rag.

Seven is the number of
deception, presented as
free choice: From seven cups I
drink my fill. With seven swords
I steal away. From seven
sticks I build a fence. I pay
the price with seven marked coins.

It wouldn't be a poem
without some mention of love
and a contrived metaphor
that breaks the metre, like his
broken heart, leaving stains on
his shirt sleeve, which stays unwashed
because he uses Brand X.

I cannot see daffodils
without hearing that damned verse.
Spring is spoilt by lonely clouds
and golden hosts. For god's sake
shut up and let me see things
as they are. It's fucking cold
and it looks like rain today.