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A Paint Shop For The Colour Blind

Roger Turner·February 20, 2018

Poetry English

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A Paint Shop For The Colour Blind

written by: roger turner

@titansdad

looking out into the street

there’s a line a mile long

i haven’t even opened yet

there must be something wrong

the line it stretches round the block

it doesn’t make much sense

i feel a riot may break out

i start getting rather tense

the phone is ringing off the hook

i amazed at things i hear

i’ve never had a thought like that

i tell them ‘stick it in your ear

they tell me, mate, that’s just the point

i tell them to go on

i’m a paint store for the colour blind

i’m not a sex salon

for days the calls keep coming

i don’t know what to say

i just run a small paint shop

known as fifty shades of grey

About
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Roger Turner

DECEMBER 2018 AUTHOR OF THE MONTH at Spillwords.com

I live in London, Ontario, Canada. I have published a few books "The Christmas Ponies", "Sarah and The Christmas Ponies" among others on amazon. My tastes run to Stephen King, but reach from Dr. Suess, and Shel Silverstein. I love golf and old films and anything related to old Las Vegas. I am married to the love of my life, Megan, and have been for 19 years.

Suman Pokhrel

Suman Pokhrel is a Nepali poet, lyricist, playwright, translator, and artist. He debuted in 1999 with a poetry collection and has since published works, including translations of Shakespeare and global poets. His poems are translated into many languages and taught across South Asia. A two-time SAARC Literary Awardee, he also received Asia’s Inspiring Poet Award and was named Author of the Month by Spillwords in June 2023. Beyond literature, he works as a freelance consultant in socio-economic research, rural development, entrepreneurial development and creative writing. He began his career in Nepal’s civil service and later worked with international NGOs. He holds degrees in Science, Law, Business Administration, and Economics.

Condoms by Seán Óg Ó Murchú

They all laughed at me. All the dinner ladies. It started with your one, I’m after forgetting her name now… Smelly Nelly’s ma. A wet little tear trickled toward her tattooed cheekbone. She was roaring red. Her harsh, wheezing laughter sounded like a black taxi tackling the Whiterock Road, her throat destroyed from all the fegs she used to be hoofing into her. She called over the other dinner ladies then, an army of them. Or maybe it was the curiosity of her horrid laughing that brought them over… I can’t remember.
“Tell the girls what you’re only after asking me there ni wee mawn.”
I looked between herself and the girls. Jesus Christ, I said in my own mind, Mental Mick is after stealing all my crayons that I’d been hoarding for myself there before the break...

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