A modern Van Gogh

They were coming from all directions
Waves of hamburgers swallowing everything in their path
Hambergers bumper to bumper in the narrow Dutch streets
Cheese and ketchup oozing over sesame casings
I thought I discerned babies being swallowed up
With no salt

And then nothing.
I could see in this Amsterdam
Old brick buildings tilted in their quirky foundations
Along my canal a row of girls quickly cycled
While singing "My Sharona"

A giraffe walked over a bridge cutting them off
But they cycled under its tall, spotty legs.

From the outdoor cafe where I was sitting
I found a mirror and glimpsed at my missing ear.
"How would it heal?" I asked

Brush strokes.
Thousands of little brush strokes.
Tapping with the speed of a keyboard artist

Brush on brushstrokes in
Colours, widths
Movements, directions dancing in the wind of my brushes
Brushing the canvas, the linen, the very pants I wear

If I stop the world goes dark
Women look at me and say, "Vincent, Vincent?"

I can't eat this bowl of spaghetti
The sauce should be on my palette
The pasta on my canvas

I hear a voice, it's the waiter now saying,
"Monsieur..."
And I see him in my next painting besides
The girls speeding on their bicycles
The boats rising and falling
The tilted, pointed buildings tilting
The sun filtering a murky yellow at the end of
an autumnal day.

My painting finger is tapping on the café table
I hear the girls riding, singing "My Sharona"
I want to give them my ear but
They are riding too fast.

Potato Eaters in the Potato House

I have had to return to the potato fields

After absorbing the irregular energy of 

Criss-crossed Polke bulbs

Experienced within the confines of 

Space

Only now

Seen through the eyes of Van Gogh

This cannot be overlooked:

The potato eaters in the potato house!

Their hardened views burn through the opaque light

Their boney knuckles reflecting the spuddy nobs

That Earth so nonchalantly delivers

Yet in this confined air

Where hope and despair are a marrying pair

Like a hard alloy moulded to an icebreaker's bow

The human spirit defied being crushed

Today it unworms those who have never tilled

How could they?

However, we do work within different confines

With Potato Planes jetting potatoes

Across the continents

'Em tubers barely know the land where they'll be eaten

And our borders, our confines are now defined 

By the carry-on template

An ingenious device that

Lets every passenger carry only so many potatoes

Above his perfumed head

The Earth and the pitchfork have not a worry

Their laborious love has

Long been forgotten in the enclosure of the plains.