turbulent indigo

you wanna make van goghs, raise 'em up like sheep, make 'em out of eskimos, and women if you please, make 'em nice and normal, make 'em nice and neat, you see him with his shotgun there?, bloodied in the wheat?, oh what do you know about, living in turbulent indigo?, brash fields, crude crows, in a scary sky. in a golden frame, roped off, tourists guided by. tourists talking about the madhouse, talking about the ear, the madman hangs in fancy homes, they wouldn't let him near!, he'd piss in their fireplace!, he'd drag them through turbulent indigo, "i'm a burning hearth," he said, "people see the smoke, but no one comes to warm themselves, sloughing off a coat, and all my little landscapes, all my yellow afternoons, stack up around this vacancy, like dirty cups and spoons, no mercy sweet jesus!, no mercy from turbulent indigo."