Scream in blue,

pAint your canvas of raining flesh in picturesque holidays from the maze inside your dreams-

F

A

L

L

I

N

G- down the RABBIT HOLE

A vortex of lost color

Sucking, draining away life, time-

Is it really worth it?

To see your name in print,

To be imitated? adored?

Their socks won't be more threadbare for the absence of you

For want of your muse, strapped to a Catherine Wheel-

-Of criticism,

Does she now sing?

So sorry I couldn't make it to the showing,

But I suppose the box seats could taste your attempt. . . at Art

If that's what you've labeled cacophony and dropped notes

It should really be over when the fat lady-

Steps on it, tells you it's worthless

Give up

They banned you long ago

From their children's ears,

The Charles Bridge statues claw at their eyes

No matter how far they've banished you, your work always returns to haunt us

To suck at you, drain away life-

Time

Is all you have now

Years creep across shivering flesh, drawn with infection

Look in the mirror and sketch now, oh Grande Artiste!

Trembling in a storm-washed corner

Tuberculosis would be more merciful

Pull the blankets closer, pretending they're my empathy

Their both fiction, anyways

A little dream never H

U

R

T anyone- But tell that to the man, so far away now, buried in a flurry of harmonies- all in

minor key, of course- craving to wipe diseased kisses on Kafka's final resting

place.

Homage.

What a silly word

To crave and fully expect before one's death.