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
I like this!