In the foyer, where the Dali's are hung out.
Best hiding place, for an escaped sociopath like me,
trying to come down, still slightly strung out.
And the echo of screams and hurried footsteps
still ring in the corridors of my fears.
I still dream of flashing butchery knives,
still see the brutal damage done,
even after all these intervening years.
Despite their so-called medication,
I still hear the little voices,
whispering in my burning ears.
I sit here in the gallery, blending in,
a brilliantly dangerous man,
in a blind society gone morally hazy.
The things I have done
would drive you all fucking crazy.
Sine qua non...baby.

Around and around the gallery.
It's deliberate angles, and gentle walkways,
persuading people, ushering people,
on a pre-ordained tour of inevitability.
To end up, herded like cultural animals,
through an aberrant artistic abattoir,
into a tastefully lit shop
of surrealist jackdaw glitter.
And I sit.
And I watch...you all.
And I plot.

Pumped water sheets down the windows
of this artistic building.
Sparkling in the sunlight,
attracting trigger-happy tourists
and curious children.
Some kind of lost and lonely nouveau statement.
And I see the flex of lithe muscle,
the twitch of raw nerve,
the ligament manipulation.
And the little voices soothe me,
keep the lid on my tin of evil,
as horror sleeps, waits,
suppressed,
latent.

A well dressed woman, carrying plenty extra meat
( she refers to herself as cuddly)
is posing next to various statues,
while her contrite husband slash erstwhile slave
photographs her as required
with the latest check this honey digital means.
And I see images of old plains buffalo skinners,
as the voices tell me...
there's enough human hide there
to re-upholster
all your twisted dreams.
Sufficient juice to drown the gurgling screams.
Plenty of food for thought,
to feed the ravenous schemes.
Just a sharp razor.
Some poisonous flattery.
And a gullible queen.

Who the fuck was Salvador Dali anyway ?
Elephants on stilts mean nothing,
to a thoroughbred sociopath such as me.
I think poetry is an extrapolation of art,
albeit without the silky brushes.
And the zeitgeist is a cultural thief ,
stealing the contemporary spirit of time.
Like my mother,
when she stole my childhood,
and left me with a warped Oedipus complex,
and a burning desire
to get even with her,
via horrendous anti-social crime.

I see an inconsequential man,
he sees the sheets of arty window water,
looks, adjusts his head, his viewing angle, looks again.
He obviously takes it in,
but he doesn't fully understand.
He justifies his exogenous existence
by the I-phone clipped to his substitute six-shooter belt.
And the rush of power
that technology gives him,
as he holds it in his hands.
And the voices whisper to me...
he's the sort of go-getting guy
who would want to die
in a stylish way,
with much ado,
and much elan.
A hammer on the back of the skull
would be too good for him,
he yawns like a grinning muppet.
But I could do it.
I have done.
I can.

I am going back,
to my anonymous flat,
to write anthropocentric poetry
about what I have seen today
and the effects of sulphuric acid on beautiful skin.
As the water runs down the gallery windows.
And the legend of Salvador Dali
is starting to wear a bit thin.