A Pavement Blood Picasso

There’s just a few, precious seconds
when the rain hits it…
before it runs, and is destroyed.
The reds darken first,
then, like magic, come ALIVE…
I swear, the whole piece of art Pulses.
I dunno, he brings it with him,
also extracts whilst preforming…
I’ve seen women, groupie-types,
offer to donate, but, he ignores them.
In fact, he doesn’t speak to anyone,
refuses to pose for photographs,
leaves, or seems to disappear,
the exact moment the heavens open up.
I’ve witnessed him getting nicked twice,
it’s never in the local paper,
and a few days later he’s back…
coughing-up gunk onto the pavement,
and a-shading and a-smearing
with those thin, long, pianist fingers.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer who deals in the Lowlife, Outsider, and Outlaw genres.  He wrote his first poem as a teenager following his release from the (Infamous) Borstal ‘HMP Portland’, and he has been creating Literary Terrorism ever since. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.