Trying to run away from the sky
as if it were a bad smell
was always going to be a challenge.
You enter my brain diaphanously,
you as a single concept illuminated by the tender pulse of the moon, like the whites of a cracked egg,
making my fingerprints glisten.
Archaic thoughts of Van Gogh, Monet and Renoir sprout from sullen crevices of the pavement like the skin of a baked potato,
and needless to say, I feel meaningless.
A fraud amongst Common Fox Gloves, water lilies and arthritis,
dissolving in the preservatives of my chicken strips wrap.
I wait to be a million chisels of marble,
a billion strokes of paint,
yet the matter I consist of
is merely mayonnaise and
a mountain of shit.
No comments:
Post a Comment