Framed

♦

There was red on her neck-

He tried to strangle her-

There were blue prints on her right forearm-

He grabbed her too hard-

She had been painting mountains

And sky

They dropped a bomb, I mean “we”-

Tactfully, with precision, they said.

How is that done?

Never mind-

♦

She could see crazy coming back for her

Granite, he was her rock.

Assumption over blends shades of grey-

Let the colors come out

In every crack of Spring

Primavera,

The last step taken

Toward a conclusion

Hot or miss

The point;

 ♦

Of impact, of view, of no return, of intersection, of convergence or divergence, of terminal velocity, of it All, (in time)

It was all Artwork. 

Painting by Francesco Hayez [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Talking myself out of any and all steadfast beliefs

And the shadows became emboldened

tossing themselves, whole bodies

against the stuccoed wall of the house

like a lunatic whose waxing drips onto

the serenade night.

Appendages out of lines, 
sinew slung haphazardly, 
do not move, it will heal.

A straightjacket all white and tight

would pacify this wicked waving,

haunting in its accidental tempo.

It was stirring.

The stale air, intent on suffocating this

common moment, tries to circulate.

Still, under such serious moonlight,

all stars let out a slit of light and with
pity.

Keep going.
Solidified, all recast and quartered

for symbiotic division of belief by
schisms and seizures.
See there,

old ways of seeing arthritic or systemic.

Unrelated to shrinking white matter,
this time indivisible from the prism
have been here again
breaking light from black wholes
made it all night once any again. 



Painting by Frits Thaulow [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Stages of Mutilation (ad nauseam)

Never been so sick with self I could taste it in the back of my throat

most like oysters growing algae, and this me, I scream 

and she freezes like a dumb deer on the winding dark highway.

Blindly bounding, bound and blind. Why I do mind the interruption!

My way, the high road, widening and re-routing due to corrosion.

Adult servitude has made me more wild than civilized and I despise 

the empty chit-chat, predictions, philosophy of catastrophe and empty

arguments that produce nothing I would swallow, hollow-remember?

I have not made myself clear in years, the only deep lines be

on my face. And my watch is dying, I hear it on my chest at night. Laugh lines. Elephantitis of my wet ware smearing ink and I still think it might work

with some flammable liquid. That is what we do to keep warm.

‡

Never be successful in a lifetime. Have you read any biographies lately? 

The good ones go

to better places, I think...and since I can no longer drink

myself there I swear I will 

I will

I will

I may....I mean to try to explain and this tiny truth laughs in my face,

which is why I should never stare deeply into any mirror

at those crows feet blue lies.

‡

Shut up! I have said, over and under, through and thru synapses

shot in my head. They said; put that voice in a jar, take a walk, 

don't talk to anyone about your crazy ideas, they will die-

Dead. You're crazy ideas, You Are

not the first nor the last to go unlisted, name twisted, dumbed down

held hostage, manipulated, occupied, and easily entertained 

by self-deprecation in all its bold colorless forms. Muted.

‡

You ugly. You can't. You ain't. Not gonna quit. Not worth

a spit, high and dry, my mouth tastes that salty green poison and 

I suck-

What would someone like me possibly do with dumb luck?

I already owe too much interest on borrowed intelligence, a smart curse,

and it hurts

but leaves no mark. SH. Self Harm and alarm bells, my squashed spirit yells, 

You win. I gag at my mocking grin, dripping bile down my chin

I can only hope to lose my inside voice. 

Painting by Yehuda Pen, Self Portrait Muse and with Death (1924) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.