putting in ground deadly
the open fallings
through fielding lanes

pushing off wildly
the garments worn
on the crooked mantel
this painting has no strokes
the paintbrush is pointless
the paint is losing precedence
the staying hand is losing artistry
there is no reason to create

putting the last sift of soil
in the last dug hole
with the shovel’s steel
this was me here, in the ground
the body of the dead me
never to be seen again

tearing to pieces
the canvas
naked in white
not a thing to see on it

patting the soft earth
in repose with the shovel’s steel
no remorse enters these bones
this is me no more
what stands there, with the shovel
is me in my body
but i might as well be dead

throwing the mantel
out the window
glass broke to shards
picking up singly by hand
the bleeding red
comes from cuts and scrapes
pain bears no meaning anymore
let it fester, scorn and swarm
all over this machine that is my body
like nothing before

i’ve thrown it all
away
no reason to keep any of it anymore

one-by-one
i throw all my paintings
all the memories beared witness to
out the window
that’s
already broken

how they land where they land
if they break if they stay well
i do not care i never will

this is
all
in my head

it might as well
be real

more real
than this place
i feel
 
Copyright © dilapoid, All Rights Reserved