Mixed Media on wood, ready to hang.

Signed on the front.

A mural created in 2014.
A world in disarray.
By design.
…
To make an island.

The one,
He alone in the lightless house,
A torch the only light, he listens,
The crackle of fire on the roof,
The rumble of troubles,
Closing.
Pressing in.
The Fireman outside,
A petrol tin in hand,
We’re here to help,
Says he with a splash of the gas.
Soon the walls will crumble.
The time to flee will come
as a great and terrible sea called Torrent,
Blue flames licking,
refusing to leave him be,
forces its way in.
To an island he must flee
An island,
The abode for one,
Marooned there he’s not,
But to turn sand on golden beaches
To dig, to find
To reclaim that which was his.
Peace.
And quiet.
Peace and quiet that fiery torrent with violence did steal.
For this is his world.
Bringer of torrents.
Fermenter of storms.
The Master, manipulator.
Clown Kingdom he’s writ
The name on the Deed
Inked by He-self
Game rules a million
Too inked by He-self
His sword to enslave
And enrage like a fire
his wheel drops the sparks
Til the smouldering twig
in blue heat strikes alight
United not,
but Untied as a lace
The shoe it has dropped
As the world marches in
A great fire surrounds
This inferno stoked well
Fans he well with each spin
On both sleek and the meek
Eyes shut see they not
As it laps at their door
That was
But no more
His prey food for fire
Unravelled has all,
That misfortunate wheel
Spinning old hard years out
As soft fresh ones rush in
For this is his game,
Clown Master he pits
Brother ‘gainst Brother,
Mother ‘gainst Father
Balloons in one hand
As one spins his wheel,
Each spoke a dragon
Each dragon a prize
Of phlegm in his mouth
Does he spit on the world
As a vengeance on all
Fanning flames through the house
Burns a blue fiery rage
Watch them fight and they kill
And they bicker and beat
As the world ends as we know,
Without shiny happy people
Not a single one.
The Clown laughs at this thrill
As they huddle and hope
That they might just be spared
From his slow bite yet toast
They were always,
And toast they will be
A balloon does he give
As they’re walked to the fire
For all are fair game
To the underworld Sire,
Spinner of that wheel
Called misfortune.