Scream in blue,
pAint your canvas of raining flesh in picturesque holidays from the maze inside your dreams-
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-
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
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-
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
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
What a silly word
To crave and fully expect before one's death.