The following write-up is a poetic take on an art piece the creator made.


Plastic sheet off the canvas

That’s the first step,

One has to start somewhere.

Falling in love would be the second

Just make sure it’s a place-

Landscapes do well in gold frames.


Memories are places 

Hold me in arms,

Hold who I used to be.

Mirrors are memories in real time

They look upon me tenderly,

Theu become a place too then

So I construct them into reality.


Next Tuesday, I grow sick of this place.

Grab a blunt, painter’s knife

To stab and slash at my canvas,

Textured paint taking form

In place of collagen ridges.

I tell you that this death 

Was for a noble cause;

For rebirth, enlightenment, all that crap.


Wash it under tap as

The fabric warps and drips and 

Changes shape, and

The wood swells.

I wring it out like it’s a crime scene,

Paint muddy on my hands.


It’s all personal

It’s all very wrong,

This is how my mother taught me 

To wash my blood soaked underwear.

It’s all wrong

It’s dirty and unholy and vile-

Wash it off. Now.


It drips with shame

Hung high on metal rungs,

And then you find yourself a smile.

Love is accidental,

It is unexpected and honest

And it has a real place.

– Nico


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