When Van Gogh Lost His Paintbrush

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Fellow Londoners,

Tell me I am not alone in my observations…I’ve noticed that as the independent shops have been forced to close, the horse meat stackers have unapologetically and conspicuously taken their place; As wrongful evictions are carried out, homes stand vacuous…despite the alleged housing shortage; As pubs shut down, betting shops slide in. However, alcohol continues to consume our community, and now gambling addictions further afflict our poverty. The empire’s desire to revive the workhouse and other social injustices have been unashamedly thrown upon us. And as the gap between the rich and the poor parts like the red sea, we quietly moan, and dare I say it, wait until for many of us it’s too late, and the powers that be mock our interpretations of a ‘revolution’.  The following tells a story of a man who could be any of us…and all of us if we continue to allow these afflictions to invade our land.

Veil-veined and pale-eyed,

He animals across the street.

Dragging his heels t’wards a requiem-

Bleak.

Drawing in glares of despair with grunts of,

‘Who cares?’ And flippant stares of,

‘Non-shallont-ness’.

Dressed in washed out denim, a dust sheet top,

The dusky haired man pilgrims to Camelot.

Beyond the boarded-up pub, abandoned terrace and soulless job centre,

Across the street and right beside the bank…conveniently aligned with cash vendors-

Awaits the building offering an abundance of…false hope.

Etching forward, he barely balances that un discerning tight rope.

Now stood before the door once more,

He checks his paper.

Pressing his lips against its corner in plea of a huge favour.

Catching his reflection in the glass, he stares with intense shame.

Leaning back against the wall, he calls out God’s name.

“Oh Zion! The leaves hail your sun,

reaping her goodness, leaving me none!

When will my dusk catch your dawn? Drink your golden?

Become what it was…when I was someone.

An affluent artist, an architect of ambition,

immune to recession…with dreams in fruition!

All I’ve worked for,

lost in a day.

Just like my fathers house- gambled away.

Give me a chance. Let me catch a break.

Give me what’s mine! For goodness sake!”

The vacuous response affirms his speculation,

There’s no man in the sky pelting down salvation.

Now sobbing with face buried in hand,

He concludes, there’s no return…for the gambling man.

Swallowing fate, he accepts the trait-

His government has passed him.

Unfolding  the ticket, he opens the door,

And stumbles in.

But does he gamble?

Lets place our bets.

Come on! It’s just a game!

Not a real scenario… Yet.

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2 Comments Add yours

  1. Hello admin of this site, do you allow guest posting
    ?? Please let me know, i am interested .

    1. Hi,

      I hope you’re well. Guest posting is something I’ve been thinking about recently. What would you like to blog about? What inspired the interest?

      Nadia 🙂

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