A wonderful nightmare thing
I'm unaccustomed to afternoon drawling on on on
window open and air-conditioning--
I turn tho my voice is raspy and low, somehow
try to tell about the portrait painted,
a likeness paint and colors and crying
but I'm quiet, sound is weighed by gravity
how funny, I'm dying like Gerard
explaining his oil and water and acrylic lyric
I don't remember why,
He died 58 years before
blood soaked I lost my fight with
bleak existence
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