David Swartz Art


This madhouse

of rain and pain

and sleep and smoke

and drooping trees

and crooked knees

and bounding time

and dreaming slime;

of words that freeze

like fossils in my sleeve

and grass that floats

like sinking boats

and blue shoes that bruise

my muse in a ruse of

pumpkin pie, as I lie

in a box of dizzying dust

and moon-eyed crust.



It stops and starts

and climbs and winds

and sings with ease

like an autumn breeze

inside my drizzling ear,

as I scorch my fear

with beer and cheer,

from rolling cars

and whisky bars

and dangling wheels

and slithering eels;

in the fish-baked morning

of my father's dream

I scream and gleam

my gloating eye

with silent sigh

and invisible fire,

to inspire the loom

to bloom

in your room.