Wednesday, April 27, 2011

a violent anachronism

Har har crippled ark
me Blakian love like
craggy rock teetering rock
starve us to the bitter seas
call doves shit rain melds

I'm incoherent
abstract painting (frenchie)
thick waves of oil paint
and smell of turpentine


I brush your slender hips,

O they're gusts o' wind
in purple streaking hell
made altered reality
on canvas,
a vision-

and it's worthless to write this poem (while I write it)
with maggots fill my mouth (in brown ground dirt)
and paintings will rot and rust (in warehouse art museums),
and I'll age and wrinkle and forget and die
leaving disembodied words to be forgiven by
clean servers seeking new spaces deleting unreadable text;

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