Painting a rainbow with a broken brush to restore some kind of art to this diabolical palette
The hues of pea soup vomit green stand out against the backdrop of thunderclouds
The little droplets hit by rays of diminishing sunshine to explode into an inverted rainbow
Forgive me if I’ve decided to paint a portrait instead of abusing the paper with words

I realise I’m not to everyone’s taste

I prepare a lunch fit for a king who has lost all control of his bodily functions
The uncontrollable urge to piss would mean burning the discount baked beans once again
The toaster has decided to cook on one side of the mould coloured bread
The fat free margarine looks good under the fatty streaks of crisp rotten bacon

I realise that I’m such a foul waste

I look out of my window watching the virus infected fascists scurry by to buy bread
The mask is now a must wear accessory careful hung unwanted around your neck
The first thought of the first freedom back from lock down is to head to the hairdressers
Everyone quickly forgets the dead or dying when the urge to socialise bears its head

I do realise my truthful words hurt

When a nations son is taking cruelly and violently from us by a underpaid uncivil cop
I’m against all forms of racism but violent and damaging protests won’t win you many friends
When the failing artists and actors pick up a broken brush to paint their fading portraits
When all that remains is the selfish vain desire to succeed where everyone else has died.

I realise my ideas contradict your worries

If only everything could be less complicated so the landscape can be painted with less colours
The jagged stiff stained bristles scratch the surface removing more paint than I’m applying
The method of using a knife and paint from a tube is so brutal and unromantic for me
When colour matters in your seminars you needed someone coloured to take the blame.

I realise I’ve been painting far too long

Sat in the front dimly lit room in a terraced house in Redcar in another parallel universe
I’ve finished modelling rocking chairs from wooden pegs and penguins from shells
Watching the foul polluting cargo ships go around the lighthouse from my window miles away
Knowing reluctantly that inside me there is nothing left of them my will is broken like my brush
I retire my art to some long distant memory cleaning my hands of all my failed art

I realise I’m not the only one