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They used to laugh at Van Gogh
Chide him and throw cabbages at him

He who painted flowers, fields and stars
As himself

With paint as thick as blood
And a will made of love and melancholy

This I recall as I walk down an alley
Lost in golden thought

As some creature leans from her friends
Sips her drink and belches in my face saying;

‘Did you taste that, dawlin’?’ while
Another mutters: ‘Poor fucka’