The Gift

He cut off his ear, that story in time,
Vincent, later the locals’ fou roux,

a manic, in delirium, brushing oil on
carton, and canvas, around Provence.

He left the internal, and the eaters’ dour,
to the landscape lunacy of colour,

a brush-dabbed constellation,
of his very centre, Rue du Bout d’Arles:

A road of girls, and brothel doors,
over screaming complaints of whores,

to intolerance, in House Number One,
a late request of Rachel, for her a parcel,

a remembrance of him, a part of him,
in Gethsemane’s cut and betrayal:

Gauguin had left, and a knife
of violence upon himself.

Dr. Rey noted, a severed artery,
and a hat disguising his slice.

Van Gogh walked to the girl, in the brothel,
To gift her him, that which needing healing.

Mike Bell Poetry

Mike Bell aims to write 10,000 poems, stick them up here one at a time, and then take a nap. By then he should be about 85 years old and have out-gunned PD, dementia, and the end of days. Possibly. Before the floods and fires. Mike Bell is found working for money as a freelance set designer.

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